


Will of Ebony

by Chalybeous (Chalybeousite)



Series: A North-Wind in Skyrim [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Fake Character Death, Other, Suicide Attempt, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-03-10 11:46:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 29
Words: 223,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3289232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chalybeousite/pseuds/Chalybeous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Heart of Frost: It’s been a year since Vorstag left Gerhild, bereft and alone in Windhelm.  For her, it has been a year full of adventure and pain and triumph. She has kept her heart hard and her will harder, knowing she must be strong to do those things only she can do. Yet when they meet again, it's as if they had never been apart. Eventually she begins to understand that only he can show her that one thing she most desires—only he can breach the protective ice and sate the unquenchable pain. Then the unthinkable happens and her heart breaks, threatening to shatter her Will of Ebony. She struggles to continue, for her fate will not let her rest, yet her heart may have softened too far. Rated E for sex, violence, language, torture, attempted suicide, death, and tons of other stuff. Mature readers only.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Happy Anniversary...?

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to my fanfic, “Heart of Frost.” You probably don’t need to read that story to be able to enjoy this one, but you’ll be missing out on so many tasty, juicy bits… ;)  
> As in the first story, this is Rated E! That means no under-age readers allowed! Seriously. There are scenes in here dealing with sex and rape, murder and death, torture and violence and blood and gore (takes a deep breath), etc. I take full advantage of the Explicit Rating, rewriting this version to be more graphic and less ambiguous than the one on ff.net. So, you have been warned!  
> That being said, thanks to all of you who read my first story (and to those of you who are now going to find it and read it), and as always an even bigger thanks for all the comments and kudos and bookmarks and subscriptions and... everything! *gushes into a pile of goo*

_"17th of Last Seed, 202: Vorstag left Windh__"_

“Damn,” Gerhild muttered under her breath, staring in consternation at the blotch of ink on the fresh page. It wasn’t that she minded the wasted page or ink. It was the trembling in her hands that was unacceptable. With deliberate movements, she set the quill aside and placed her hands on the table, fingers splayed. She pressed them into the wood until her fingernails turned white with the pressure, until the tendons stood out like thick cords. Still the trembling would not stop.

For the past several months she had been chronicling her life since coming to Skyrim, at the suggestion of a friend who thought it might help with her…occasional difficulties. She began her memoirs with a few references to her parents and her father’s dying wish that she deliver a message to Jarl Ulfric. Through two slender volumes she had faithfully recorded the first year of her life in Skyrim. This afternoon she had reached the date one year ago today—the day when Vorstag left her alone in Windhelm. Damn him.

She closed her deep violet eyes tightly shut, pressed her bow-shaped lips into a thin line, breathed slowly through her nose, and willed the shaking to cease. She told herself the date held no power over her. It was only a group of words, marks on a page, black ink on white parchment, words that **she** put into her memoirs. She put the words there, so she had control. She was young, strong, capable, intelligent, and more than a match for any day on the calendar.

“It’s only a date,” she spoke confidently into the empty room, “It’s only numbers and letters on a page. It can’t hurt me! Not anymore…”

She was formidable. She had defeated Madanach, the leader of the Forsworn; exterminated a renegade clan of vampires near Morthal; negotiated a treaty that kept Whiterun neutral in the Civil War; fought ash spawn and saved Councilor Morvayn from an assassination plot; infiltrated the Thalmor Embassy and bloodied their noses—that was particularly taxing considering her history with them; discovered and rescued the last surviving members of the Blades; learned the Way of the Voice and killed nine dragons. It would be challenging for anyone to accomplish these tasks, and she had done these things within two years. She was Lady Gerhild North-Wind, Thane of Whiterun and Markarth, well-known and respected in Morthal and Riften and Solstheim, agent and spy for Jarl Ulfric and his Stormcloak rebellion.

And Dragonborn.

She held onto these facts as she finally managed to stop the trembling.

“Are you alright, my Thane?” Lydia’s voice floated through the closed bedroom door.

Gerhild cursed silently in her head, admonishing herself for having spoken out loud and attracting the attention of her busybody of a housecarl. The next moment, she lifted her chin and answered in a cool, clear voice, “Of course, Lydia, I was only talking to myself. But thank you for checking.”

There was a sort of muffled acknowledgment from the woman, but no sound of fading footsteps. Suppressing the sigh, Gerhild carefully set aside the quill and inkwell, and called out, “Was there anything else, Lydia?”

Lydia opened the door, only putting her head and one arm past the portal, and didn’t make eye contact as she answered, “A message came for you a little while ago. I thought you were resting, so I didn’t bring it to you right away.”

And you wanted to have time to read it, Gerhild thought to herself, fully aware of Lydia’s snooping habits. Nothing of her thoughts showed on her face, however, as she stood and walked over to the door to take the folded parchment. Her hand gave a shudder as she noticed that Lydia was wearing her steel armor. The last time Gerhild had seen Vorstag, he had been wearing the same type of armor. Damn him. She wrenched her thoughts back to the present and forced a smile to cover any wayward sign of emotion. “Thank you, Lydia. Was there anything else?”

“No, my Thane,” she bowed, her hand clasped over her heart, overly dramatic as usual.

“Very well, you are dismissed.” She turned away from her door, but Lydia made no move to return downstairs. She ignored her for the time being and focused on the letter. As she suspected, Lydia had read it; the wax seal with the wolfs-head insignia was slightly off center from its original red mark. She didn’t make an issue of it, but broke it open, her eyes flashing over the shaky, pained scrawl and instantly absorbing the text.

The letter was from Kodlak. “Lydia,” she called out unnecessarily loud, as if expecting to have to shout to be heard downstairs. Turning back she feigned surprise to see her still nearby. “Oh!”

“Excuse me, my Thane, but I thought you might have a reply to send.”

“No,” she shook her head. “No reply, other than ‘aye,’ which I will deliver myself. Kodlak has asked me to dine with him tonight.”

“I see. I only thought that, since you got home so late last night, you would rather rest.”

One delicate eyebrow raised itself up onto her brow. Truthfully, she wasn’t so upset Lydia had been waiting up for her, as she was surprised that Lydia had heard her come in. Either she had made too much noise last night, or she didn’t give the woman enough credit. Her dimples deepened as she responded, “We both know it was early this morning when I got in, but I’ve gotten enough sleep. And it’s not like dining with Kodlak would be taxing…”

“But the Companions can be quite… excitable.”

Gerhild had enough practice dealing with personal relationships to realize that this would be a good time to laugh and make light of Lydia’s description, though she felt none of the humor. “Aye, that they are, and none are more ‘excitable’ than the twins. But I’ll be downstairs with their Harbinger, away from the ruckus of the main hall.”

“Perhaps I should go with you,” Lydia continued to press the issue, “Just in case.”

“In case what?”

“Well,” the housecarl shifted from one foot to the other, her face taking on a pained expression. “The last time you spoke with the Harbinger, you left on a quest for him so quickly you barely had time to change into any armor. And when you got back, you looked so strange, tired and bloodied, I was afraid…”

“It wasn’t my blood,” Gerhild reminded her in a gentle tone.

“I know that now, but when I saw you again, I couldn’t help but think, all those things that could have happened to you, and I hadn’t been with you.” She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “It is my duty to protect you, with my life if necessary. Please, Lady Gerhild, I know you don’t like traveling with me, but give me one more chance. Especially if the Harbinger is going to have you do another errand for him. You shouldn’t go off fighting alone.”

Gerhild was surprised twice in as many minutes. Perhaps she had misjudged Lydia, after that one disastrous time the two of them had gone together to clear out a bandit camp for Jarl Balgruuf. Though she had been more than willing to do the task, Lydia had acted like fighting mere bandits was beneath Gerhild’s status of Thane. They had argued nearly the whole way, and eventually Lydia had turned sullen and sarcastic. It helped Gerhild to make up her mind never to take Lydia with her ever again.

Also, she hadn’t been alone when she’d gone to Dustman’s Cairn; Farkas had gone with her, but she couldn’t tell anyone that—she couldn’t tell anyone she had seen him change into a werewolf. That, more than anything, was what caused her strange behavior after the mission. The shock that the members of the Circle were all werewolves had almost overwhelmed her, and in an effort to keep their secret, she had turned even more withdrawn and private than usual. And of course Lydia had picked up on it; the woman was intuitive if not amendable.

Quickly she realized she had been letting her mind wander, almost for too long if Lydia’s scrunched eyebrows were anything to go by. She smiled and leaned forward in an open and friendly manner, though her deep violet eyes remained dead and dark. “It’s only dinner, Lydia, not an adventure. But I promise, if he has another errand for me to do, I won’t go alone. If I don’t take you with me, I’ll at least take one of the Companions. Alright?”

Lydia nodded, knowing a compromise when she heard one.

“Good! Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she gestured towards the door, “I want to freshen up a little before heading over to Jorrvaskr. I know I’ll be early, but I’m sure Kodlak won’t mind the extra time for visiting.”

“Of course, my Thane.”

Gerhild watched Lydia close the door behind her as she left, and resisted the urge to breathe a heavy sigh. Lydia was who she was, and she was very good at protecting her house and property here in Whiterun. Still, she didn’t think she could ever take her with on another quest. Mainly because Lydia didn’t know Gerhild was the Dragonborn. So few did. Most in Whiterun knew she had helped defeat a dragon, and the Jarl had rewarded her with a Thaneship. And though the Greybeards had called for the Dragonborn shortly afterwards, very few knew the Greybeards had meant Gerhild.

She shook herself out of her musings and walked over to her chest. She knew Lydia came often into her room whenever she was away, but she was sure the woman’s morals wouldn’t allow her to pick the lock of her Thane’s private chest. It was still unlocked—though closed—from when she had retrieved her journal earlier that afternoon. She lifted the lid and set Kodlak’s note on top of a stack of personal letters. Next she put the journal away. She had to set it in the chest carefully to leave the pages open as the ink had yet to dry. Later, perhaps tomorrow, she would pick it up and try to write some more, when it was no longer the seventeenth of Last Seed.

After locking the chest, she brushed off her skirts before walking over to her bedside table where she kept a handheld polished brass mirror. The reflection wasn’t perfect by far, but it sufficed to show that her dark-gold hair was still neat and tidy within its intricate braids. She tilted the mirror slightly to peek at her cleavage, still marveling at the change. While in Riften this past year, she had discovered a face sculptor in hiding beneath the city, and amazingly the woman had been able to remove scars. No longer was her bosom marred by that ugly, wide, jagged scar given to her by a Hagraven not far from Markarth…

She knew she was having trouble again when the reflection began shaking. Damn Markarth. And damn Vorstag! One year ago today he walked out of her life. And one year before that she had almost lost her life in Helgen. Mordantly she wondered if anything tragic would happen to her on this date this year. Ever since making Whiterun her base of operations—it was far more neutral and less suspicious than Windhelm—she had spent quite a bit of time with Kodlak and the Companions. He had become like a grandfather to her, and he was getting very old, his joints twisted and his body weakened with age. If he were to die this evening…

Resolutely she set the mirror down and pushed the thought from her mind as she headed towards the stairs. She told herself there was no use tempting fate, she had enough on her plate already. Stormcloak spy. Thane. Dragonborn. All these fates pulling her in different directions, crossing her loyalties, consuming her time and energy. And she no longer had Vorstag to keep her focused and on course. Damn him!

“Your cloak,” Lydia gestured with the rich material from where she was standing beside the front door.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be,” Gerhild began, turning around so Lydia could set the rich green velvet with the snow bear trim on her shoulders. It was a little warm for a cloak, but she didn’t argue; summer in Skyrim could still produce snow, even on the prairie lands of Whiterun. “But I have my key, so you don’t have to wait up for me. Good night, Lydia.”

“Good night, my Thane,” she answered in a subdued tone. Gerhild tried not to roll her eyes as she walked out the door, knowing full well that Lydia would be waiting up for her. Again. She brushed the woman from her mind and stepped out onto the streets of Whiterun.

Though it was early evening, the sun was still well up from the horizon, the days nice and long this time of year. She smiled and waved to Adrianne next door, nodded to Jon Battle-born as they passed each other, laughed and jumped aside as two children chased each other down the street, and otherwise looked and acted like the young Nord woman the citizens of Whiterun knew as Lady Gerhild—except for one small moment. It was common practice for her to stop at Fralia’s stall in the marketplace and look at jewelry whenever she passed by. This evening, however, she saw a simple silver ring prominently displayed. The memory popped into her head of how she had given her Silver-Blood ring to Vorstag right before he left. Damn him. She had to turn away before she lost control of her emotions yet again, and only gave a small shake of her head to Fralia, hoping she wouldn’t think poorly of her for not taking the time to chat with an old woman.

After the market, she climbed the steps that led to the small courtyard outside the Temple of Kynareth. There she paused for a moment beside the large tree, the Gildergreen, old and ancient and dead-appearing. The feeling of a strange sort of kinship woke within her, as it did every time she passed it. They were the opposite of each other: the tree dead to all outward appearances—though Danica, the Kynareth priestess, was adamant it was still alive; and Gerhild appeared to be a vibrant young woman with her whole life ahead of her—though inside her heart was dead. She reached out a hand to lay it tenderly on the bark and gave the Gildergreen a private smile before turning towards the mead hall of the Companions.

Even as she climbed the steps, she could hear many sounds coming from the ancient longboat-turned-hall. There was singing coming from within, and behind the building she could hear at least two people sparring. To the side and up a steep climb of stairs was the Skyforge, where Eorlund Grey-Mane was still hard at work keeping the Companions in arms and armor. The sounds were familiar, sounds that she always heard whenever she came by, and the normalcy comforted her. Without a single tremble her hand reached out and unlatched the main door.

“Hail, Shield-Sister!” Farkas proclaimed warmly as soon as she stepped inside. The giant of a man—large even for a Nord—was dressed in his customary steel armor. She was saved from having to hide her reaction to yet another reminder of Vorstag, when he came up to her and embraced her in a bear hug. She was no where near a match for his strength, and couldn’t spare a thought for Vorstag, all her efforts needed to keep her lungs from being crushed.

“Don’t break me!” she gasped, trying to form words without being able to breathe.

“Oh, ah…” he heard her gasping and realized what he was doing. He let go of her and stepped back, allowing her to take a deep breath. He kept one hand on her shoulder to hold her up while the other patted her down and made sure she was alright. “Sorry, Shield-Sister, I guess sometimes I don’t know my own strength.”

“Farkas, you shouldn’t call me a Shield-Sister,” she reminded him gently, enduring his examination and feeling like a cub being looked-over by a mama bear—or rather a papa bear. She smiled to soften the rebuke, though none of the emotion reached her deep, dead violet eyes. “I’m not a Companion. I only went with you to retrieve the fragment of Wuuthrad as a favor to Kodlak.”

“Oh, well, ya know, it’s just, I thought, you might change your mind, and all, because you know about…” he leaned in close to whisper the next word, “‘It,’ and you still like me.” He blinked, seeming to think his words might be mistaken, and started to sputter. “Like us, you still like us. I mean, you come around here a lot, and you’re really nice, and…”

“Be warned, Lady Gerhild,” Vilkas’ taunting tone came at them from the side. The twin of Farkas, he was just a shave smaller in build and strength, though with more than his fair share of intelligence. He was wearing his wolf armor and leaning nonchalantly against a pillar, a mug of mead in one hand, his lips turned up into a sneer. “Farkas has taken a liking to you. I saw him shopping for an Amulet of Mara the other day.”

“I did not!” he shouted automatically. Then, realizing how his words might sound, he turned to Gerhild and tried to explain. “I mean, I do not. Like you, that is, I mean, I do like you, but not like that, not that you’re not pretty and all, but, ah…” his words trailed away into a growl before he turned back to his brother, “Shut up!”

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” Torvar started chanting, egging the brothers on. He was already deep enough in his cups that he tipped his chair to the floor when he stood up. Vilkas put his mug aside and flexed his fists, looking far too ready to fight—almost like he had planned this from the start. Farkas eyes narrowed, but he lifted his chin stubbornly and stepped forward to meet him.

Gerhild sighed, rolling her eyes dramatically and getting ahead of Farkas. Firmly placed in the middle, she held her hands out towards each of them, only barely able to keep them apart. “Stop this right now,” she commanded in her best mothering tone.

“Stop what? I haven’t started anything. Farkas is the one pawing… I mean fawning all over you,” Vilkas taunted again.

“I’ll show you pawing, with my fist!” He made to lunge forward, but Gerhild’s hand on his chest reminded him he’d have to go through her first. He grabbed her wrist to remove it, and she pulled out of his grip and slapped his knuckles. The smack was loud, making his eyes widen in surprise, but most importantly stopping his advance.

“Farkas! Enough! And you, Vilkas,” she rounded on the other brother, “You’re acting like you want to fight.”

He shrugged, tried to slip a slap in behind her back and got slugged on the shoulder for his efforts. “So what? I’m bored. And the big lug’s been doing nothing but waiting for you ever since he heard you were back in Whiterun. Now he’s seen you, so we can fight.”

“Fine! You two want to fight, then fight,” she said, deciding to admit defeat, if somewhat ungraciously. She took each brother by the ear, causing yelps and whines to come from both of them. Keeping her arms wide, she started walking them around the tables. “There’s a whole, lovely practice yard just for that purpose. If you’re so bent on fighting, take it outside. Kodlak’s asked me to dine with him tonight, and you know how the sounds of fighting upstairs upsets him.” She gave them a none-too-gentle shove towards the back doors, which Torvar only barely managed to wrench open in time.

Skjor and Ria were currently using the practice yard, but upon seeing the twins descending on them, they immediately stopped and got out of the way. Gerhild watched for a moment through the open doors, tilting her head as the brothers began grappling even before they had passed the tables under the porch. Both of them were smiling, Vilkas’ smile cocky and Farkas’ fully enjoying the moment. Then Torvar closed the door and the scene was blocked from view. Shaking her head, Gerhild turned on her heel and made for the stairs, heading towards the living quarters in the basement and Kodlak’s chambers.

Her soft boots made no noise as she walked down the long hallway, but Kodlak was aware of her arrival. He was in his sitting room, the double doors opened wide to give him a clear view of the hallway. She called out a greeting to him anyway, and he turned towards her. Her steps faltered for only a moment as the tattoo on his cheek came into view—so similar to the tattoo Vorstag wore. Damn him. If Kodlak noticed her slip, he gave no sign. Instead he leveraged himself out of the chair and onto his feet before she crossed the threshold.

“My dear,” he took her hands in his and presented his bearded, untattooed cheek for her to kiss. “You’re early. Showing such enthusiasm to spend time with an old man might give me ideas.”

She laughed, the sound musical and warm, but none of the lightness reached her eyes. “Oh, Kodlak, you’re going to make me blush.”

He smiled, holding onto one hand as he saw her settled into the second chair. “Hm, making Lady Gerhild blush. Aye, that would be quite an accomplishment.”

“Harbinger!” she scolded, and saw the answering twinkle in his eyes, letting her know he was enjoying teasing her. He left just long enough to close the double doors before settling into his own chair with a heavy sigh.

“So, my dear,” he started again, more serious now that they could speak privately, “How are you?”

“I’m doing well, Kodlak, and you?”

“No, none of that,” he shook his finger at her. “You and I both know what day this is. And you came over early, so you must have something on your mind. I’ll ask again, how are you?”

Gerhild glanced away, feeling the trembling return, but unwilling to let it show. “Kodlak…” She took a deep sigh, but she knew he wasn’t going to let her off the hook. She decided to change tactics and go on the offensive. “Is that why you asked me here tonight?”

He nodded, “Aye, that, and I like your company.” He poured her a glass of wine, knowing she preferred it to mead, and handed it over. “You came back to Whiterun early this morning, and you haven’t been by to see us yet.”

“I’ve been busy,” she hedged, seeing as she couldn’t put him off. He looked at her sternly, like the tough though loving grandfather figure she saw him as, and she gave in. “I’ve been taking your advice.”

He hummed, sounding only mildly interested, and commented, “That’s what a Harbinger does, gives counsel. What advice was this?”

She took a deep breath. “To write…” her voice cracked, and she took a sip of wine to moisten her throat. As she pulled the goblet away, she saw the surface of the deep red liquid filling with concentric waves. The shaking was back. “To write down what has happened in my life, especially since coming to Skyrim.”

Kodlak nodded, “Now, that is a volume I would love to read. How Gerhild became Dragonborn…” He broke off suddenly when he noticed her reaction. His hand, the joints gnarled with age, reached out and took the goblet from her before she could spill any of the liquid. He set it on the table and continued, “But of course, I won’t ever read it. And I’ll never ask to. The writing is for you, to benefit you and help you come to terms with your past, not to satisfy my curiosity.” He leaned forward and asked, “And has it helped?”

She had been surprised enough to raise an eyebrow when he called her Dragonborn. She had thought Jarl Balgruuf and his Steward and housecarl were the only ones here in Whiterun who knew she had been the one the Greybeards summoned. “You are remarkably well-informed,” she evaded answering.

Kodlak smiled kindly this time. “I’m old, Gerhild, and my body may be weak with age, but I’m not senile. Oh, don’t look like that,” he patted her hand, seeing her take her lower lip between her teeth to keep it from trembling. “You’ve kept our secret. You can trust me to keep yours.”

Sudden insight set upon her, filling her with ire. “Ah, so that is how it is. Because I found out the members of the Circle are all werewolves, you decided you needed to find out my secrets, so you could use them as insurance that I would remain quiet.” Her words were a little more heated than what was warranted, but she reveled in the anger. Anger was one emotion she let herself feel, as it gave her such strength and endurance, two qualities she often needed in abundance.

“That was undeserved.” Kodlak’s face took on a saddened expression, not at all intimidated by her anger. “And unnecessary, lass. You know that. Truthfully I’ve known you were Dragonborn since you became Thane, far longer than you’ve known our secret.”

Gerhild’s eyes threatened to water, his gentle rebuke stinging harder than any blow she had ever received—even a blow from a dragon—but her will and her pride kept the tears at bay. “Excuse me, Harbinger,” she began, her voice and manner formal, “For my outburst. It was uncalled for. I’m afraid…” she had to stand up and step away, still feeling the anger and needing to bleed off the energy. “I’m afraid I’m not very good company this evening. I am sorry.”

Kodlak took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. He knew this wouldn’t be easy, but after hearing that Gerhild had returned to Whiterun early this morning, he knew he had to try to help her. Today, of all days.

“Gerhild, my dear, come here.” When she shook her head and continued pacing, he became a little more insistent. “Young lady, don’t make me chase you. I’m far too old for that. Come and sit down again, so we can talk.”

She hesitated long enough just to show she wouldn’t jump at his beck and call, but did as he asked and retook her chair across from him. “Now,” he began, reaching out to take her hand even though she refused to look up at him, “Tell me what is troubling you today. Did something go wrong at the meadery?”

That got her attention. Gerhild lifted her face, the miniscule expression of shock clear on her delicate features to those who knew her well enough—a slightly raised eyebrow, parted lips, a twitch at the corner of her left eye. “How did you…?”

“How did I know you have ties to the Thieves Guild?” he finished her question. “You are a Thane of two holds. You have done good deeds in several other holds, including Riften, which is notorious for thieves. Also, even though you are the Dragonborn and honorable in your actions, you refuse to join the Companions. There had to be a reason.” He picked up his goblet and continued. “I did a little poking around, asked a few questions here and there, and made a great many suppositions. Which you just confirmed,” he raised his goblet to her.

Her shoulders slumped as she ruefully shook her head. “Oh, you are good.” She picked up her own glass and took a sip, completely in control once again. “No, nothing went wrong during my little outing. This has nothing to do with that.”

“So, what is it?”

“I… I don’t know,” she almost sighed, and quickly realized she was close to losing control yet again. She set the goblet aside, the liquid once more belying her difficulties. She pressed her hands onto her lap, willing the tremors away as she sought for a way to explain her trouble. “Every little thing just… keeps reminding me about… a friend of mine.”

“Someone who was at Helgen?” he prompted.

She shook her head, surprising him. “No, he wasn’t there. I met him in… another hold,” she finished lamely. Peeking up she saw Kodlak’s agreeable face patiently waiting, so she continued. “He’s a sellsword. I hired him, and we got along fairly well. He traveled with me for several months. We were good together. Our fighting styles compliment each other, and we didn’t argue too much. He even learned to look the other way whenever I picked a lock. But last year, he just left.”

“Just like that?” Kodlak pressed, “No reason? No warning?”

“Well, not exactly,” she hedged, thinking of their argument regarding Ulfric’s plans for Markarth. She didn’t want to admit that she was a spy for Ulfric, no matter how much Kodlak already knew about her. She decided to be vague in relating the facts. “He missed his home, and it was going to be some time before I could return there. So he decided to leave without me.”

He knew she was leaving a lot of things out, but he didn’t press her for the details. He was concerned with her emotional state—rather her denial of her emotions—not her actions. “You miss him.”

“I…” the immediate denial died upon her lips. Looking at Kodlak, thinking of her actions, she knew it would be a lie. She ducked her head as she admitted, “Aye, I suppose I do. He was my friend.”

“‘Was’ your friend? He’s not dead, is he?”

“Well, no, of course not,” she jerked her head up quickly, blinking rapidly, wondering how he had gotten that idea. “At least, not that I’ve heard. And I would’ve heard something from a mutual friend of ours. So, no, he must be alright. He must be,” she repeated this last quietly to herself, unwarranted doubt creeping into her voice.

“So why do you think he’s on your mind so much today, of all days?”

“Because he left me on this day last year,” she replied quietly, dropping her gaze back to her hands. They were fists now, bunching the fabric of her skirts.

He heard the softness of her tone, the way her words trailed away into breath, and thought he understood. "I think we are too formal tonight," he said suddenly, catching her off guard. "Perhaps we should dine upstairs with the others."

Gerhild gave a short sort of laugh at the abrupt change in topic, but recovered quickly. "You'll have to wait a little while. The twins are fighting."

“Oh? What about this time?” His tone didn’t sound surprised, or disappointed, only mildly curious.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she stood up again, the need to pace returning. “Vilkas claimed he picked the fight because he was bored. And do you know something else? I think Farkas knew he was doing it on purpose, and went along with it anyway. I think they both actually enjoy it.” She leaned her hip against a dresser, her arms crossed over her chest as she asked, “Why do they do that?”

“Do what?” Kodlak asked gently.

“Fight,” she waved her arms and started pacing again, enjoying expelling some pent up energy. “They’re brothers, aren’t they? Shouldn’t they love each other? But every time I come over, it seems they have to have at least one fight.”

He watched her carefully, noting her erratic manner and shifting moods and persistent stalking; he thought she could do with a good fight herself. Too bad she wasn’t dressed for it, though they did have some spare armor lying around somewhere. Perhaps after dinner he could talk her into sparring with Ria or someone, just for the exercise. “Don’t you have any siblings?”

“No,” she shook her head. Truthfully, she almost had an older half-sibling, but Kodlak didn’t need to know that. “I’m an only child.”

He sighed, pushing himself to his feet. “Then you wouldn’t understand. Believe me when I say that brothers like to fight, and that they don’t mean anything by it, and leave it at that. Now, come on, let’s go upstairs tonight. I think the distraction would do you good.”

She set her hand in the crook of his arm, “Distraction. Aye, I suppose a distraction would be a nice change of pace.”

“Then tomorrow, you should leave Whiterun and find this wayward friend of yours.”

“What?!” She was so startled by his advice that she actually stumbled. Luckily her hand was still linked in his, and he was able to help her keep her feet.

“You’ve trusted my advice before, and it’s been good advice, hasn’t it? So trust it now. Go and find your friend, Gerhild,” he repeated calmly. “I’m sure he misses you, as much as you miss him.”

Gerhild would have liked to reply, but they were already walking up the stairs to the main floor. Instead she chewed her bottom lip, thinking about his words. Vorstag had kissed her before he left; perhaps he did feel something towards her and would be missing her. But never once in this past year had he tried to contact her. Then again, she hardly stayed in one place long enough to receive messages, which is why she had everything forwarded here to Whiterun. And she knew Vorstag couldn’t read or write, so it wasn’t fair for her to expect a letter from him. Furthermore she knew where he lived and that he would remain in Markarth, and it wasn’t like she couldn’t have written to him. His friend Ogmund was the local skald, and would be more than willing to read her letter to him.

But what would she write? What could she write? Vorstag had kissed her before he left. It had been so completely out of character… After all, she was sure that he preferred the dagger to the sheath—as sure as she could be without a dagger of her own to prove it. His kiss had been so unexpected that it had shocked her into cold silence. What words could she put on paper that would encourage him to explain himself, and not end up embarrassing him in front of Ogmund, who would have to read her letter to him and pen his response…

“Aye, lass, a distraction is just what the healer ordered,” Kodlak patted her hand and pulled her out of her musings. She ducked her head again, and heard him laugh softly. “Come on, let’s go outside and catch the end of the fight.”

She lifted her chin and smiled, though none of the emotion reached her deep violet eyes. “Alright. But I’m not healing them this time. I don’t care if they have broken bones and deep gashes and have bled out all over the yard. I won’t do it.” When Kodlak’s eyebrows lifted, she relented slightly, “Well, not right away. They ought to suffer a little, just to discourage them from fighting out of mere boredom.”

He laughed again, pushing the door open just as Vilkas landed a stunning blow to Farkas’ chin, spinning him completely around on the spot. “I doubt that would work to discourage them, but you can go ahead and try. Duck!”

Vilkas heard his Harbinger and barely managed to escape Farkas’ meaty fist aimed for his nose.

Gerhild sat beside Kodlak at the tables, watching the twins fight, and the others cheer them on. She gave a long-suffering sigh, “Boys…” But for the rest of the night, though she smiled and laughed, her thoughts were calm and her emotions locked away within her dead heart.


	2. Letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya know what? This story starts slow. I know I’m recapping what you need to know from the first story (in case you didn't read it—shame on you!), and setting the scene, and all that ‘characters-where-are-they-now’ crap, but sheesh, I bored myself! And it shows; Chapter Two isn’t up to my usual par.  
> Anyway, next chapter we'll get to the good stuff. Any objections? Didn’t think so ;D

“Damn.”

Vorstag sat at the small table in his room, carefully penning a report to the Stormcloaks. He had been doing this for a year now, acting as Jarl Ulfric’s agent in the Reach. He’d listen for rumors—most of which came from his friend Ogmund, the local skald. Then in his capacity as a sellsword, he accepted those jobs that took him out into the Reach, where he could observe for himself if these rumors were true. All the while avoiding suspicion, because Vorstag was a full citizen of Markarth—had been all his life—so of course he couldn’t be a Stormcloak.

No, the problem wasn’t his passive spying; the problem was his writing. Growing up he had never bothered to learn to read and write, even though his closest friend was a skald. But now he had to send monthly reports to Ulfric on what he heard, what he had been able to confirm, and what was still unconfirmed. His pride suffered the most those first few months, as he couldn’t manage anything more than a few words scribbled in a childish scrawl. Though he had pushed himself and practiced almost every free moment, it still took a good six months before he got the hang of constructing a full sentence. Even after a year, though he worked slowly and carefully and thought through every word before he put anything on parchment, he wasn’t satisfied with his spelling.

As he wasn’t satisfied now. Every month when he’d compose his report to Ulfric, he’d write a rough draft in charcoal first, before copying it in ink onto fresh parchment. This gave him the opportunity to check with Ogmund and fix any errors before sending it. Not that he let Ogmund know what he was doing, but if something looked obviously wrong—as it did now—he would go and ask before committing it to ink. It had been hard enough swallowing his pride to ask Ogmund to teach him, and learning had been harder still. But the hardest part had been letting Ulfric know of his illiteracy, thanks to those sloppy early reports. Hadn’t losing Gerhild to him been enough humiliation?

The thought of her brought his eyes up from the page to seek out his new sword. It was propped up in the corner next to his ebony bow and steel armor, standing on its hilt, the golden metal gleaming in the lamplight—so like in color to her hair. It had arrived by courier during the first week of Rain’s Hand, a few days before his birthday on the ninth, with nothing special on the wrapping to say who had sent it. But with the sword was a brief note that read, “Because I missed last year.” He knew then it came from Gerhild, as she had been sick with fever and fear poison during his last birthday. Months later, when she learned she had missed it, she had promised to make it up to him—and she kept her promise. And he kept the Dwarven sword well sharpened and cleaned, so much more valuable to him than his old iron war axe, and not just in a monetary sense.

Pushing thoughts of the golden-haired goddess from his mind—damn her—he focused again on the parchment, rubbing the charcoal in a nervous habit that left black marks in the creases of his fingers and under his nails. He tilted his head and squinted his eyes, but that didn’t make the word look any better. Giving up, he stood and headed for the door, taking the parchment and charcoal stylus with him, the letter far too sensitive to leave just lying around.

Ogmund was singing near the hearth in the main room of the Silver-Blood Inn, entertaining locals and travelers alike. He was finishing the last chorus of _“The Age of Aggression”_ to a round of applause and another mug from Frabbi. Vorstag allowed him his ovation, smiling and clapping along with the rest of the audience, though inside him raged a bitter conflict. He was supposed to be supporting the Empire, as the Reach was for the Empire and he was a loyal citizen of the Reach. Yet he was an agent for the Stormcloaks; therefore, he was committing treason. Worse, he didn’t truly side with Ulfric, especially with his bid to become High King of Skyrim. But he did agree that the Thalmor needed to be driven out of Skyrim, and that Ulfric would eventually win the Civil War; and these two facts drove him to find a way to pass the Reach from Imperial control to Stormcloak control—with as little bloodshed as possible.

So outwardly he smiled and cheered for the pro-Imperial propaganda, while inwardly he died just a little bit more. He’d have never been in this predicament if he’d never gone with Gerhild to Windhelm, if he’d never agreed to travel with her after Argis had been too injured to go on, if he’d never taken that first job to show her around Markarth. Damn her for breaking his heart! He waited until Ogmund took a healthy swallow from the fresh mug before approaching him.

“Ah, Vorstag, my boy,” Ogmund greeted him, a little tipsy. It must be later in the evening than he realized of the old skald was that deep in his cups. “What’s got you up? I thought you went to bed hours ago.”

“I… ah…” This was only a little awkward. He had never admitted to Ogmund what he was doing for Ulfric; Ogmund was under enough suspicion from the Thalmor Justiciar for Talos worship. Instead he had been pretending the letters were to Gerhild, though never actually saying it. It was easy enough, as it seemed like everyone in Markarth assumed the two of them were courting, even if she was currently away from the Reach. All Vorstag had done was say he wanted to learn how to write so he could send letters to someone; he let the others think what they wanted, neither confirming nor denying all the crafty smiles and sly winks. “I was writing a letter,” he began, “And was trying to spell ‘scout,’ but the word didn’t look right.”

“‘Scout,’ eh?” Ogmund asked, a crafty smile on his lips. “Telling a certain someone about your adventure last week, hired out to those hunters?” There was the sly wink, not subtle at all.

Vorstag felt that uncomfortable squirming in his guts. What price he wouldn’t pay to give up his life as a spy. He had been a simple sellsword before he met Gerhild: fighting, drinking, traveling… His life had been so much easier when all he had to worry about was protecting his employer from sabre cats and bandit raids. He rubbed at the back of his neck, smearing the charcoal into the sweat collected there. He smiled, wishing he could make it look more genuine than it was, but Gerhild was the one gifted in acting and dissembling. Damn her. “So, ah, how do you spell it? I tried S-K-O-W-T, but it doesn’t look right.”

Ogmund roared with laughter. Vorstag endured it with the same smile, glad that Ogmund was too far drunk to see it was false. Quickly he got himself under control, and wobbled a little as he gestured with his mug. “Sorry, my boy, I shouldn’t laugh at you.” He paused to belch, reaching out to take hold of Vorstag’s shoulder, either to steady himself or to make sure there was only one of him, not two. “I know it’s been hard, learning to read and write, and you’ve done a remarkable job in such a short time, my boy, couldn’t be prouder. But your spelling some days…” he shook his head. “Scout is spelled: S-C-O-U-T.”

“With a C?” he asked, scrunching his brow in confusion. Quickly he flattened part of his letter against the wall, scribbling with his stylus and pulling out of Ogmund’s grasp, “And then O-U?” At Ogmund's rocky nod, he finished changing the word. “Aye, suppose that does look more right. Thank you, Ogmund.”

“No problem, my boy.” At least, that’s what he thought he said, a belch covering most of the words. Ogmund looked into his mug, already half gone, and breathed a heavy sigh. “I think my work is done here for the night. I’ve entertained the crowds, drunk my fill, and helped you learn a new word.”

“Aye, that’s quite an accomplishment for one night’s work,” Vorstag deadpanned. “Would you like someone to walk you home?”

“I… I…” Ogmund blinked, still trying to get the two Vorstags to merge into one. “Shit, I think I do need help. I know my house is close, but I’m not sure I could find the right street. Wouldn’t want to end up on the wrong level and trying to get into Arnleif and Sons or Vlindrel Hall.”

Vorstag forced a laugh, though the mention of Gerhild’s house here in Markarth twisted that damnable knife in his heart again. Damn her. “Come on, old man,” he took the mug away from him and finished it himself, “I’ll see that you get home safely.”

“Ah, you’re such a good boy,” Ogmund patted his cheek and breathed fumes into his face. He leaned back for a little fresh air before wrapping an arm around the skald's shoulders and steering him towards the door.

Outside the night was clear and cool, a sporadic breeze funneling down the mountainous valley that Markarth lay within. It tugged at the laces of Vorstag’s tunic, reminding him of yet another change due to Gerhild. Damn her. He had never bothered with an extra set of clothing before, as he never needed more than his armor for anything. After meeting and adventuring with Gerhild, he found himself with more coin than he knew what to do with. Then he found himself dining with a Jarl, and his battered old horn scaled armor was not appropriate for the occasion. So he had taken some of his extra coin and purchased not one, but three changes of clothing. Nowadays, he only wore his armor while working, already as equally comfortable in tunic and leggings as he was in his custom-made steel armor.

The breeze puffed again and ripped his letter from his hand. He gave a small cry, but couldn’t lunge for it without dropping Ogmund face first into the stream beside the street. He watched in consternation as the parchment landed in the middle of the water, was quickly caught by the current, and was swept out of sight. He sighed through his nose, pressing his thin lips into an even thinner line, and turned away. There wasn’t anything he could do about it now, and the water would soak the parchment and wash out the words, probably pulling the page apart long before it reached the grate through the city walls. He tightened his grip on Ogmund and focused on helping him up the steps to the next level.

A bit further downstream, a Thalmor had just entered Markarth, singularly notable as he traveled without an honor guard. His robes were worn thinner at the elbows, and the fasteners were a little tarnished down the front. There was a hole in one glove, and his belt had been cinched in an extra notch, attesting to the weight he had lost due to stress and hardship. His boots were muddied and the soles wearing thin, and the elven mace on his hip was in need of sharpening. Yet though he traveled alone, he still walked with the haughty air of a superiorly bred Mer.

Norilar had learned to make-do with less during the past two years, ever since his humiliation. He had been interrogating a Nordic bitch, when she had decided to defy him and bite off the end of his ear. Because of that unfortunate event—quite beyond his control—he had been unfairly demoted. He was now desperate to regain Elenwen’s good graces, forced to swallow his pride and beg for help from the very Thalmor he had walked over to attain his formerly lofty position. Yet Elenwen had given him a way back in: find the Nord girl who disfigured him, the same girl who escaped the headsman’s block in Helgen, and Elenwen would reinstate him as her personal assistant.

Over the past two years he had been trying to do just that, scrounging for every bit of information on young Nord girls, looking for one who might fit that particular girl’s description and had survived Helgen. Every clue, no matter how far-fetched, fell beneath his greedy gaze. Ever an opportunist, when he saw a sodden sheet of parchment slip past him in the stream, he quickly knelt down to grasp it, hoping for the best.

He was disappointed. Scanning the ugly scrawl, he could only barely make out a few of the words. He could read the word, “Imperial,” and what looked like a childish spelling of another word, but whatever it was remained indecipherable. He shook off all the water he could, flattened it carefully, and slipped it inside his robes. Then he took a careful look around to see if he could spot the person who had dropped it, but no one was near.

Norilar’s actions had even gone unnoticed by the city guards, who had conveniently made themselves scarce at the first sight of a Thalmor. He stood and brushed the damp soil from his knees, grumbling about the state of his robes. He didn’t have the time or the coin to spare to have them replaced; everything he had was tied up in his desperate endeavor to find this “Hilde of Skyrim.” Damn bitch.

With that in mind, he continued on his way to Understone Keep, arriving early for his appointment with Ondolemar. They weren’t to meet until tomorrow morning, but since he was there—even in the middle of the night—he was sure Ondolemar wouldn’t mind. The sooner they were out of each other’s hair, the better. He barely paused to allow the guards to open the doors for him, stalking into the Keep as if he owned the place. A cold smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, thinking that one day the Thalmor would own this place, and all of Tamriel.

He had been here before and remembered the way to Ondolemar’s chambers. He walked quickly, his worn boot soles hardly making any noise on the ancient Dwemer-built stones. He reached the main door of the suite and rapped his knuckles on it, his knock echoing loudly in the corridors. Silence answered him. Well, he thought to himself, that isn’t surprising—it was well after midnight, perhaps close to two in the morning. Ondolemar was undoubtedly asleep. And it didn’t sit well with him, thinking of Ondolemar, well situated in a cozy post, three square meals a day, with warm blankets and a nice soft bed. He ground his teeth and knocked again.

“Who would dare disturb me so late…” the door yanked open, not by one of his bodyguards but by Ondolemar himself, grumbling at the late-night visitor. Both Mer were so surprised, they simply stared at each other for a half a minute or more, eyebrows hitched and expressions wary.

Norilar was the first to recover his wits. “Excuse me, Ondolemar,” he bowed, as was expected of him being he was of lower rank, “For intruding on you so late, but since I arrived in Markarth a little early for our appointment, I thought you might be willing to see me early.”

“You thought wrong,” Ondolemar snapped, his eyes narrowing. Normally he would have loved to lord it over Norilar and watch him eat crow, but he had just been going to bed, hoping to catch a few hours of sleep before having to put up with the bastard who now looked at him with eyes wide in shock… He took a breath to calm himself. No use getting on Norilar’s bad side, just in case he did manage to get back on Elenwen’s good side. The Mer was a crafty, slippery son of a bitch. He opened the door wider and gestured inside. “But since you are here now, we might as well have our meeting. Or would you rather take the opportunity to rest a few hours first?”

The thought of sleeping in a real bed was tempting. He answered hesitantly as he crossed the threshold, “I wouldn’t want to impose…”

“Very well,” Ondolemar jumped on the chance to discomfit him, “We’ll just have our little meeting and be done with it. Please, sit, you look exhausted.” Though the words were polite, the tone was dry and perfunctorily. He left him to choose one of the chairs facing his desk and walked over to a side table.

Norilar cursed his slow wits as he took the proffered seat. He used to be able to run rings around this half-wit! “Thank you.” He hated to do it, but he had to lower his hood while in Ondolemar’s office, revealing the disgraceful stump of an ear.

Ondolemar didn’t ask if he was thirsty, but began pouring two glasses of wine, making small talk—or seeming to—as he played at being a host. “I’ve noticed a very obvious fact, Norilar.” He turned to face him, gesturing with the two glasses at the empty space behind him, “That you are without escort. Surely you haven’t lost them, have you?”

Whether he meant mislaid or killed, Norilar didn’t care to consider the insult. He took the glass as he struggled to get his voice under control. “No, of course not. They are on an undercover mission. I sent one to Riverwood, and the other to Ivarstead, to speak with the locals and any assets we might have in the area regarding any refugees who fled Helgen.”

“Ah, I see, asking after a certain Nord girl,” he filled in.

“Yes. Obviously I cannot conduct such questioning myself…”

“Obviously,” he agreed into his glass, not quite under his breath.

“…so I sent them to investigate on my behalf. I’m sure they will do an adequate job. I have promised them a substantial reward for any information leading to this Hilde of Skyrim.”

To be paid, no doubt, as soon as you are reinstated—if you are reinstated, Ondolemar thought to himself. Outwardly he leaned back in his chair, looking bored and lazy. “That does explain your lack of a proper escort. But you do understand, my dear Norilar, that your walking around alone reflects poorly upon the rest of us.”

“It won’t be for long,” he ground out. “And this is the only place I’ll be without them. Once we’re finished with our meeting, I’ll return directly to Northwatch Keep.”

“No longer at the Embassy?” he asked, unable to help digging in the barb. Elenwen must be distancing herself from the incompetent fool. Perhaps he needn’t be as nice to him as he once thought.

“No, I’ve been given offices at the Keep, and the use of the facilities, to question anyone who might know about this Hilde.”

“Convenient,” he commented condescendingly.

“Quite,” Norilar agreed, ignoring the jibe. The fact that Elenwen trusted him enough to allow him to interrogate anyone was a small miracle.

“So, why did you wish to speak with me, in person?” Ondolemar remained relaxed in his chair, leaning away from his desk.

“I was wondering, first of all, if this Lady Gerhild North-Wind had ever returned to Markarth.”

“You still think she might be your missing girl,” he sneered, “Even though she’s older and of different coloring and has a different name?”

Norilar ground his teeth. “I’m not taking any chances. I’m sure if I see the bitch again, I’ll recognize her. All I want is a glimpse of Lady Gerhild, even if it’s to confirm that there is absolutely no possibility of her being Hilde.”

“Well, I’m afraid I cannot help you. She’s still away.”

Norilar nodded, having expected as much. “There is another matter, something somewhat strange,” he reached inside his robes and pulled out the sodden parchment. “What do you make of this?”

Ondolemar couldn’t keep the disgust from his face, looking at the wetly lying paper leaving a small puddle on the top of his desk. He deliberately moved some paperwork out of the way of the sodden mess before asking, “What do I make of what? A sopping piece of refuse?”

“I found it just this evening, floating in the stream that runs through the city. Look here, you can make out the word ‘Imperial.’ And this here looks like the word ‘troops.’ This could be a report written by a spy here in Markarth, right under your very nose!”

“Hardly,” he barely gave his theory any credence. As if a spy could operate here in Markarth without his knowledge. “Look here, how he spelled this word. S-K-O-W-T. Ridiculous! That’s not the writing of a spy, my dear Norilar; that’s a child’s scrawl.”

It was galling to admit he was right, so Norilar merely swept the sodden parchment from the desk and tucked it away once more. “Well, then, if there’s no Lady Gerhild, I suppose our meeting is over.”

“So soon?” Ondolemar’s tone in no way sounded genuine. “I was hoping to hear of any news you may have. With the Forsworn leaderless and attempting to regroup, life in Markarth has gotten fairly dull.”

“How trying for you,” he ground out between his teeth. By the gods, he would love to shove his fist through his face and down his throat.

“Indeed,” he agreed, “Though it allowed me the opportunity to attend Elenwen’s party…”

“You were there?” Norilar’s voice was incredulous, shocking Ondolemar into silence. This was suddenly broken when Norilar started laughing.

“I fail to see what is so humorous.”

“She was there,” Norilar gasped, struggling to get his derisive cackle under control.

“Elenwen? Yes, of course, it was her party.”

“No, no,” he wheezed, gripping the edge of the desk to keep from rolling out of his chair. This was too good, and it was too infrequent nowadays that he had any cause to laugh at his fellow Thalmor—rather than being the one laughed at—that he could barely manage to keep his breath. “Hilde. She was there.”

Ondolemar’s eyes widened. “What?!”

Finally he managed to catch his breath, though one arm remained pressed against his ribs where a stitch was twinging him. “Hilde of Skyrim was at Elenwen’s party. Only she went by Hildegarde the Resolute.” He squashed his humor down to a few smattering giggles. “Elenwen spoke to her, greeted the girl herself, but was called away before they could talk to any great extent. I wish I could have been there, but my duties had me elsewhere,” he said, implying that he would have recognized the chit.

Ondolemar finally managed to drag his jaw upwards and close his mouth. He thought back to the party, and all the Nords who were there, enough to foul the air with their unwashed stench—how anyone could sweat so much in a place so cold was beyond him! They had been mostly nobles and Jarls, but he did remember one young Nord woman… “Light brown hair, dark eyes, a round, childish face full of freckles, thin build, though taller than you described.”

There were a few differences, he had to admit, like the freckles, but the girl he questioned was so filthy and the torture chamber so dark, she may have had freckles.  As for her height, "She must have grown some in these past two years."

“Well, it seems I remember her,” he leaned back in his chair, finding something he could salvage of his pride, “Well enough to save you any return trips to Markarth.”

“What do you mean?” Norilar asked, his eyes narrowing. This was his moment of triumph, damn it, and Ondolemar was stealing it away from him.

“Lady Gerhild North-Wind,” he began, looking down at his wine and swirling it lazily in the glass, “And this Hildegarde the Resolute,” he raised his eyes as he raised the cup to his lips, “Are not one and the same.”

Norilar felt like the floor had just fallen out from beneath his feet. He didn’t want to believe it, but it must be true, or Ondolemar wouldn’t be gloating so much. “Are you sure,” he had to ask, had to press.

“Yes, I’m afraid I am. Lady Gerhild’s hair is much lighter,” he began ticking off differences, “Her face is shaped more oval and without those freckles. And even if it wasn’t for that,” he smiled as he dropped the last explosive rune, “She has a very wide, ugly scar across her chest, something to do with a Hagraven. Anyway, if I remember correctly, this Hildegarde was wearing a very low cut gown. Very low cut. Without a scar.”

Norilar felt defeated for only a moment. “Very well,” he forced himself to straighten up. “Lady Gerhild North-Wind is not the girl I’m looking for. I don’t suppose there’s been anyone else who fits the description?”

“No,” Ondolemar finished the last of his wine, “But I will continue to keep an eye out for you, now that I know what she looks like.”

“Thank you.” The words were spoken, though not meant. Damn, and he had been so close. If only Elenwen had allowed him to attend her party, but she was still upset with him. Yet he’d show her—show everyone—he was still competent even after losing an ear. He’d never rest until Hilde… Hildegarde… whatever the bitch’s name… was found, captured, tortured, beheaded, her body defiled, and her skull decorating a spike! “Excuse me, Ondolemar, but I’ve kept you from your rest long enough.”

“You’re not leaving now, are you?” he asked. “It’s the middle of the night.”

He couldn’t stay there, not thinking of Ondolemar sneering and giggling over his unfortunate situation. He pushed himself from the chair, leaving the wineglass barely touched, and gave a cursory bow. “I must. There are still other leads I need to track down. Again, thank you for your help.”

“You’re welcome, and good night,” he called to Norilar’s retreating back, the smile already tugging at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t bother to get up and show him out. Instead he set the glasses aside for the servants to clean and headed to his room, thankful that he could at last find his own bed. Before turning in he had one last thought, of Norilar and his desperate quest to find one Nord girl in a realm full of hundreds of thousands. The giggle was quiet and sleepy, but thoroughly enjoyed.

* * *

Ulfric was his chambers, ensconced in his favorite chair, the cushions worn and faded with use. On his knees rested a slim volume, but he wouldn’t have been able to tell anyone what it was about. Slowly he flipped the pages, the words passing under his eyes without being deciphered, as he tried to lull his mind to sleep.

By Talos he missed Gerhild.

The past year had been busy for him, even though the Civil War was at a stalemate. During the first several months, a good part of his time had been spent with Gerhild, whenever she managed to find time to return to Windhelm. During the day he’d help train her in the Way of the Voice, and at night he’d help her into his bed. Unfortunately they hadn’t made much progress in that second area, a fact that left him feeling bitter and extremely frustrated. None of this appeared to her sharp gaze, his steel will holding the negative emotions at bay, even though by now he was more than ready to grab her and force her to…

He snapped the book closed, staring hard at the floorboards. He could never force her, not that he didn’t want to, but he knew if he did then he would never have his pet Dragonborn. And that, above all else, he wanted. Only with the Dragonborn on his side could he be sure to win the war, free Skyrim from a weak Empire, and finally turn his attention against the Thalmor and wipe them from the face of Nirn. Gods, he needed Gerhild.

She had moved out of Windhelm, giving him the excuse that Whiterun was more convenient geographically speaking. He had wanted to take the hold for the Stormcloaks after that, but she had resolutely blocked his every move, declaring the city and the hold neutral by using the authority of the Dragonborn. The Imperials were still beginning to believe, thanks in large part to the Nords among their ranks vouching for her. But worst of all, the Stormcloaks whole-heartedly believed her—and believed in her—forcing Ulfric to either accede to her demands or lose his army. It only placated him a little bit that General Tullius had also been unwilling to sign the treaty, though if rumors could be relied upon, Legate Rikke had a lot to do with persuading him. For all her faults, for all their disagreements, Rikke still wanted what was best for Skyrim—it was only that she couldn’t agree with Ulfric on what was best.

He pushed aside thoughts of his old friend—Rikke had been a comrade during the Great War—and opened his book once more, picking a page at random, and letting his eyes drift lazily down the inked lines. Slowly he turned the page, his eyes following the movement, and his thoughts drifting quiet.

A knock sounded on his door, by the lightness it was from a woman’s hand. He hadn’t been expecting Gerhild for another month or more—not until she finished some business with the remnants of the Blades. Yet he couldn’t help but allow one small, selfish moment as he willed the person knocking to be her before calling out in a forceful tone, “Come!”

The door opened, somewhat hesitantly, the timid manner telling him it wasn’t Gerhild behind the frame. It stopped partway, allowing the person to see only as far as his bed, that it was empty and still made from the night before. Whoever it was seemed reluctant to finish entering, but he didn’t want the door to his sanctum to remain open all night. “Either come in, or leave, but at least close the door.”

The tiny squeak of surprise confirmed his worst fears—it was his wife, Nilsine, who had come to his bedchambers. He resisted the urge to close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration; it wasn’t her fault she was so timid. She had been raised in a sheltered household, and when her twin sister was brutally murdered, she had been incapable of dealing with the tragedy. Her mother, Tova, as well, the woman turning to drink to help her cope with the painful loss. Only the father, Torbjorn, had kept the family going, financially and socially.

That was what occupied the later half of this past year. Before the sister’s death, he had been in negotiations with the Shatter-Shield family for a bride, something he found distasteful but necessary if he wanted his line to continue. It was a toss-up which twin he would have ended up with, until Friga was murdered. He had allowed the family their year of mourning, as tradition dictated. During that time he had met Gerhild, and all thought of Nilsine as a wife flew from his mind, the idea of his heir being the son of the Dragonborn was too enticing.

But Gerhild had refused even the mention of a permanent relationship between them, other than as pupil and mentor—in Shouting and in bed. She could not be persuaded, and then had moved to Whiterun, and then Torbjorn had declared the family’s mourning was over and it was time they got on with their lives. And Ulfric and Nilsine had been wed.

She was a young bride for an old man, meant only to bear him an heir. He had assumed they both understood this was the extent of their relationship, but over the past two months since their wedding, he began to realized she didn’t truly understand what her role as his wife entailed. For instance, her presence in his chambers tonight. She had her own rooms, a full suite, further down the hall. He went to her as often as he could manage, but she was not to come to him. He thought he had made it fairly clear early on how this marriage would work.

“Nilsine,” he acknowledged, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder, and no less menacing, “Why are you still up? It is very late.”

She finally poked her head around the edge of the door and found him sitting in his corner, her eyes wide with nervousness or trepidation. “How did you know it was me?”

“Because,” he sighed, shutting the book and setting it on the small table, “My soldiers know where to look for me, if they have to disturb me in the middle of the night. So does Galmar. You are new enough to the palace, and unfamiliar with my habits, to know that if I’m awake this late, I’m sitting here. Also,” he pushed himself up from his chair, his joints popping, “You made a small noise just now, and I recognized your voice.”

“Oh.” The sound was no more than a sigh, a rounding of her mouth followed by an exhaled breath.

“The door…” he prompted, wondering what it was about him that made women forget about closing doors. Maybe there was something threatening, that made them instinctually not want to be alone with him, at least not without an easy escape route. Yet like the first night Gerhild came to him, Nilsine also closed the door and remained inside, turning to face him and pulling the edges of her robe tighter around her.

“You didn’t come tonight.”

He ignored the abruptness of the comment, and the innuendo as he was sure she didn’t know what she had said, and answered her honestly, “I thought it was still inconvenient for you.”

“I… no… no, not as of this morning,” she blushed a deep red, easily seen even in the dim light. She was not used to talking so straightforward about such a personal incommode. Then she straightened her shoulders, telling herself to stop being so silly, as her husband had every right to her body. Besides, she had brazenly come to his room in the middle of the night with the intention of having intercourse.

By the Nine, this was awkward. Truthfully, if he allowed her to press the issue, he would take her. Her body was pleasing, and she herself was a willing bedmate, if not an enthusiastic one, often lying quiet and still beneath him, waiting for him to finish. “I apologize if I’ve kept you up waiting for me, but I truly didn’t know you wished to see me tonight. Go to bed, Nilsine, and I’ll come visit you tomorrow night.”

She swallowed, but she had made up her mind, she wasn’t going to back down now. “What about tonight?” she asked, gesturing towards the bed. “I’m awake. You’re awake. There’s a bed…”

“No.” He might have spoken a little more forcefully than intended, but as odd as it sounded, the last woman he wanted in his bed was his wife. His bed was meant for Gerhild, a place where they could attempt to become close and get her past her troubles with intimacy. He didn’t want Nilsine there, nor to allow her to become used to the idea that it would be alright for her to come here at any time. The last thing he needed was for her to walk in one night and find he and Gerhild…

“Excuse me, my Jarl, I meant no disrespect,” she curtsied deeply.

“Do not call me that in here,” he almost moaned, again wishing it was Gerhild who had come to him tonight. She understood the sanctity of his bedchambers, how outside that door he was Jarl Ulfric, leader of the Stormcloaks, Liberator of Skyrim, but inside this small room he was merely Ulfric, a man.

“Excuse me,” Nilsine remained almost kneeling before him, her head bowed, “I… I don’t understand… I didn’t mean to offend you…”

“Never mind, Nilsine,” he sighed, walking up to her and taking hold of her upper arm. “Let’s just say, I like my privacy. This room here is the one room that is mine, no one else’s, and I want to keep it that way.”

“Of course,” she was standing before him now, but still looking aside, “Excuse my presumption…”

“Enough excuses,” he commanded, though softly, stroking the side of her neck, “And enough apologies. You didn’t know I don’t like to be disturbed in here, unless it is an emergency.” He kissed her cheek, filling his nostrils with the sweet scent of her freshly washed hair. She had taken pains for him tonight, and he hadn’t noticed. He was not a very good husband. “Now you do.”

“Aye,” she breathed, trembling beneath his touch. Ulfric… scared her. He was powerful, intimidating, competent, experienced, confident… Gods, he had fought in the Great War, was the Jarl of a prosperous hold, and was leading a rebellion against the Empire for Talos’ sake! Yet he could touch her with such deliberate lightness that it made her head swim. She often wondered, considering how aloof he acted towards her during the day, if he had other women—mistresses—at his beck and call. If she were honest with herself, she would admit that she had come here, at least in part, hoping to catch him with another woman. But she had found him alone, alone and unaware of her fertileness and willingness. And he had kissed her.

She closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of his lips against her earlobe. She had tried to be a good wife to him since their wedding, despite her heart being weary over her sister’s death and her mother’s current drinking problem. She had yet to show any sign that she would give him the heir he had married her for, but she had faith in her youthfulness and time. As long as he could do his part, she was confident she would—eventually—do her part. That’s why she came to him tonight, to fulfill her wifely role as quickly as possible.

Not that she wanted it to be over and done with because she didn't enjoy it. Ulfric was very learned in bed, and knew exactly where to touch—and when—to make her feel the most exciting sensations. He was also well built, as far as she could tell since he wouldn't remove his clothing when they were together or allow her to touch him. And though his features were not too pleasant to look at, at least in the dark she couldn't see his face. Actually, she couldn't see a thing, as every time he visited her, he'd insist on banking the fire and blowing out the lights. It had seemed odd to her at first, as she thought he would want to see his bride's body, but upon consideration she came to the conclusion that, like her, he saw this as a marriage of obligation. There was only one reason they were wed, and it wasn't for love.

So, like tonight, she came to him, to fulfill that purpose, so they could both remove this nagging obligation hanging over their heads and get on with their lives. She reached her hands up to wind around his neck and lean into his body. She could tell, even through his leggings, that he was already willing and able to bed her.

“Nilsine,” he caught her hand before she could dip beneath his collar. He’d be damned before he let her know of his scars. “Go to bed.”

“That’s what I had in mind.”

He forced a smile at her brazenness, though he didn’t share her enthusiasm. “Is that why you came here? To bed me?”

“I…” She stopped so suddenly that he pulled back to look at her face. Her expression was a mixture of determination and surrender. “I want this, Ulfric,” she remembered to drop his title, and he rewarded her with a smile. “I know,” he watched her larynx bob as she swallowed, “I know you do not love me, and I’ll never expect you to, but you need a legitimate heir to your throne. That’s why we’re married. I… I want to give you that, so… so you can… so I can…”

Sudden fury cooked up inside him, but nothing showed on his stony features. “You wish to take a paramour?”

“No, well, perhaps,” she allowed, looking away. Then, for the first time in her life, she felt bravery and looked him square in the eyes, meeting his sabre cat gaze almost fearlessly. “We don’t love each other. I never expect you will love me nor, I think, do you ever expect me to love you. So let’s be honest. We’re married so that I can give you an heir to Eastmarch. Once that is done, why continue the facade? There would be no point. I promise you, Ulfric, that I will give you a child, a son, to follow after you. But beyond that,” she shrugged, hoping and praying that he understood, “Let’s not expect more from each other than we can give.”

He couldn’t believe his ears, that Nilsine would show such cold calculation to their relationship, but it would keep his options with Gerhild open. “You can promise my heir would be a son?”

She at least had the grace to blush at this. “No, I can’t; only the gods could promise you that.” She lifted her chin resolutely, “But I will give you an heir, or die trying.”

“Don’t promise that,” he grabbed her shoulders, suppressing a superstitious chill. “Don’t promise anything you can’t deliver without relying upon others. Just…” he sighed, still enjoying the scent of her hair. Perhaps he could bed her tonight, but not here. “Just do your best, Nilsine. I ask no more of you.”

“Of course, Ulfric,” she responded, remembering to drop his title.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he said, taking her by the arm in one hand and opening the door with the other. He’d walk her back to her room, and stay for a while; after all, he really hadn’t known she was able tonight. Then, tomorrow, he would write to Gerhild and ask her to visit as soon as she was able.


	3. A Brilliantly Stupid Idea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel a dragon fight coming on. Do you feel it? Do you?

3rd of Heartfire: 4E 203

Vorstag swore softly under his breath, not wishing to upset his two charges any more than they already were upset. Of all the things that could go wrong on a job, this time it had to be a dragon. Fuck.

He had been hired by Voada, one of the servants in Understone Keep. She had a niece and nephew who were recently orphaned. They were coming to live with her and seek employment there at the Keep. The cook, Anton Virane, had promised to find them something to do once they arrived. The only problem: they hadn’t reached the city. The children had hired a mercenary to escort them to Markarth from their family farm south of Rorikstead. After four weeks, a letter arrived in their stead, stating how in the middle of the night the mercenary had stolen their money and anything of value and left them stranded in the small settlement of Old Hroldan. Voada had been understandingly upset, and after asking around for the most dependable, reliable, responsible mercenary in Markarth, the Jarl’s housecarl, Faleen, had recommended Vorstag. Mainly because he didn’t consider himself so much a mercenary—willing to take whatever job came along that paid the most even if he was already working—but a sellsword—honest and easy-going and willing to stay loyal to his original employer. At least, that’s the way he preferred to describe himself.

And he was well-known and well-liked in Markarth.

Voada had been reluctant, and had pestered him with a constant stream of questions regarding his skills and integrity, until Faleen had to intervene again and state that the sooner he got going, the sooner her niece and nephew would be under her care. He had done what he could to assure her, and even lowered his asking price—considering what the family had been through already. Then he had set out for Old Hroldan with a letter from Voada to give to the two youths so they would know they could trust him.

And so far, the trip had been uneventful. Something, some tingling sixth sense had told him it was too good to last, but he had blissfully ignored it and allowed himself to thoroughly enjoy getting out of the city. It was an opportunity to stretch his legs, practice his skills, and catch a glimpse of those Imperial troops he had heard about on their way to reinforce Fort Sungard. All in all, a very good trip.

Until the dragon.

The three of them were close to Markarth, but not close enough, when they heard their first sign of the dragon, a supernatural screaming Shout that boomed through the high atmosphere. He pushed and shoved the two siblings up a densely vegetated ravine and found a shallow cave at the top. He urged them inside, thankful that there were no signs of any animals currently using it as a shelter. Immediately they began holding onto each other for dear life, staring awestruck at Vorstag as if he were the Dragonborn.

“Is that… is that… a…?” the boy, Faric, stuttered.

“Aye,” answered Vorstag, pulling his bow from his back, “A dragon. We’re safe in here. A dragon’s Shout can’t penetrate through earth or rocks,” he reassured them, remembering what Gerhild had once told him about dragons.

“What do we do now?” the girl, Fasett, asked through teeth chattering with fear.

He looked at the two, still more children than adults, thinking about all they had been through these past few months, and he knew he would give his life to give them even a small chance at surviving this. Quickly he began formulating a plan. He wouldn’t be able to use his bow; though he had brought all his weapons and armor on this trip, he hadn’t bothered to string his bow and wouldn’t have the time to do so now. He passed it and the quiver of arrows over to them. “First, keep these safe for me. I’ll want them back when we get to Markarth,” he began, pretending that a dragon wasn’t so big and scary as to assume death would follow.

The boy nodded and swallowed loudly.  One arm let go of his sister to sling the quiver over his shoulder and pick up the bow.

“Second,” he continued, trying to instill a little more faith in them, “I want you both to wait here, just for a little while. I’m going to lure the dragon around behind the hill over there. When I do, you’ll be out of its sight. Then I want you to get back onto the road and run for Markarth. Understand? Don’t look for me, don’t worry about me, but run down that road. Just after the next bridge you’ll come across Salvius Farm…”

“There’s a man in Old Hroldan named Salvius,” Fasett interrupted.

“Aye, it’s his dad who owns the farm. Talk with him, or run up to the city guards; they should be patrolling nearby. Tell them about the dragon, and have them send help. Can you do this?”

“But won’t it just fly away if it doesn’t see us?” Fasett asked, more than a little terrified over being separated from their protector.

“No,” he answered, “It knows something is nearby, and won’t stop looking until it finds something. So if it sees me, it won’t bother looking for you two. Understand?”

Both children nodded, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, and Vorstag didn’t feel a whole lot of confidence in their abilities. Still, as long as they got to safety, that was what mattered. He pulled his shield off his back, strapped it on good and tight to his left forearm, and drew his Dwarven sword. “Remember,” he said, keeping his voice calm and soothing, as if he was facing nothing more than a wolf, “As soon as you see the dragon land behind that hill, get to the road and don’t stop running until you find help.”

They nodded again, almost in unison, and he had to trust them to their fate. He gave them his most confident, charming smile, got a timid one back from Fasett, and turned away.

Vorstag crouched low as he made his way through the brush, trying to get as far away from the children as he could before the dragon spotted him. His lips were pressed thin, his breath light and easy through flared nostrils, as he reached the road. He didn’t slip out of cover, however, staying in the ditch for as long as he could before the scrub gave way to tall grass. He watched, waiting until the dragon was looking away, and then darted onto the road. His powerful legs pumped, propelling him across the open area and towards the top of the hill. He figured he’d be easily spotted from there, and the dragon would focus on him, allowing the children to escape.

The dragon’s cry echoed round the hilly terrain, chilling his frost-resistant, Nordic blood. It had spotted him. He refused to look, not wanting the distraction as the ground was pitted with rabbit holes and rocks and he couldn’t risk a misstep that might twist his ankle and leave him vulnerable. Instead he focused on running, climbing the slope as quickly as he could. It was the sound more than the breeze that warned him the dragon was Shouting at him, _“Yol Toor Shul!”_ He stopped and spun in place, raising his shield for protection just in time.

The last dragon he had fought—well, really the Dragonborn fought it and he tried not to get in the way—had been a Frost Dragon. This one was different. His first clue was the fire that rained down around the edges of his shield. He felt the steel heat up, and saw the wood begin to smoke, and briefly he wondered if he should loosen the straps and discard the shield. He immediately thought better of it, realizing that if he didn’t have the shield, his armor would be what was heating up right then. So he grimaced and endured, waiting out the breath, amazed at the lung capacity of a dragon.

It finished and continued to fly past him, its great wings beating the air and causing a downdraft that almost forced him to his knees. As he lowered his shield he got a good look at it, bronze in color with black spots, with small boney spines down its back and a tail sharpened to a point. He swallowed, wishing he had had time to string his bow, as it was a lot easier to fight a dragon if you could ground it first, and arrows were useful for tearing holes in its membrane-like wings. It was too late now, however; with nothing else to do he finished his race up the hill.

When he reached the top, he resisted the urge to look towards the two siblings, not wanting to attract the dragon’s attention to them. He felt exposed up there, with nothing around him that was taller than his knees, feeling like he had just dropped his pants in the middle of a busy street. If the dragon had a clear view of him, however, that meant he had a clear view of the dragon. It was not too far away, circling, staring at him first out of one eye, then the other, as it readied itself for another pass.

“Fuck,” he mumbled to himself as it finally lined up on him. Then a brilliantly stupid idea came to mind, a way to get the dragon grounded since he was unable to damage its wings. He adjusted his grip on his sword, hefted his shield, and widened his stance. He’d have to time it perfectly if it was going to work, and it might hurt before it was over, but he prayed it would be worth it. “Talos, give me strength,” he breathed, willing his legs to keep from turning into jelly.

The dragon was a good hundred yards out when the Shout began, the fire sweeping up the side of the hill before zeroing in on his position. He raised his shield, tucking as much of his body behind it as he could, and waited. The timing had to be precise, which meant he’d have to wait until the dragon was almost past him. The Shout seemed longer this time, probably because he was anticipating just the right moment. He could smell the wood on his shield smoking, the fur lining on his steel armor singeing, and prayed that the accompanying acrid scent wasn’t the hair or skin of his own body burning.

‘Now!’ a voice inside his head seemed to speak to him. Without considering where it was coming from or questioning its reason, he trusted it and acted. He lowered his shield and raised his sword, pivoting his upper body and throwing his shoulders and torso behind the movement. His protection fell away, exposing him to the full brunt of the Fire Shout. He had to turn his helmet aside or risk burning part of his face—as it was, he was fairly sure he had been hurt. But his body was still turning, twisting, his sword arm arcing upwards, slicing through the air. By dropping his shield arm and pivoting his body, he had managed to shift all his strength as well as the weight of the shield behind his sword arm that was rising up, higher and higher, swinging towards that one spot where he would make contact. He was aiming blind, unable to look and guide his arm if he was a little off, using his other senses to know where the dragon would be and when so that he could hit it.

A jarring impact rolled down his arm, almost numbing it and nearly knocking the sword from his grip. Something hot rained down on him that wasn't fire, hissing off his heated armor and coating the ground with a sticky mess. The dragon stopped Shouting to scream in agony, its wings beating the air in fury as it tried to stay airborne. His face still averted, he had to let the dragon finish flying past before he could look.

The ground around him was drenched in dragon blood. He had scored a hit—a good sized one judging by the amount of the blackish red liquid that painted the prairie grass. He should feel triumphant, he supposed, but there wasn’t any time for self-congratulation. He looked past the dragon, once more lining up on him, to see the small cave where the children were hiding. No, this wasn’t over yet. He looked back up at the dragon, raised his sword with the dragon’s blood still dripping sluggishly down the blade, and began moving down the backside of the hill.

The dragon eagerly followed.

Gerhild had been traveling to Markarth, still wearing her steel plate armor, having just helped the Blades claim Sky Haven Temple. It had been a stupid battle, herself and two old warriors, against a sea of Forsworn savages, a Hagraven, and then a dragon. A major fuck-up, in her opinion, as the Blades blindly trusted her to defeat nearly everyone single-handedly while they complained about how long it was taking. She had been under the impression that the Blades were supposed to protect the Dragonborn, as they had once protected the Emperor, but apparently she supposed wrong. More often than not during their little “outing,” she had been the one protecting their ancient, sorry asses.

She had been more than willing to leave them puttering around the dusty Akaviri temple—at least they’d be out of her hair while Esbern tried to decipher more of the ancient texts. But it left her in a foul and bitter temper as she headed for Markarth, almost to the point where she wished some of the Forsworn were still alive, or even that another Hagraven would attack. Hell, even a fucking wolf would be welcomed—or a rabid rabbit—anything to allow her to burn off some of this extra anger boiling in her veins!

As she neared Markarth that morning, the ghostly echoing Shout of a dragon called to her very blood. The souls of the dragons she had already consumed, including the one from a few days ago near Sky Haven Temple, stirred within her own soul. They could always sense when another of their species was near, almost as if they struggled to awaken from their unsleep, their limbo realm of not-quite-alive-but-never-to-be-dead state, to try to warn their brethren that Doom was approaching.

Beneath the steel plate helmet, behind the black cloth that covered her features, the Dragonborn smiled. It was as if Stuhn himself had answered her prayers, granting her a dragon to sate her unquenched thirst for productive conflict. Briefly she touched her gauntleted fingertips to her chest, directly over the place where her Amulet of Stendarr lay beneath her cuirass, and whispered a prayer of gratitude to him under his Nordic name, Stuhn. She sent one to Talos as well, just in case it was he who set the dragon in her path. Then she shrugged her pack to one shoulder in preparation for depositing it in the first handy crevice, unsheathed her steel war axe, and started jogging towards the sounds of Shouting.

She turned a bend in the road, getting a clear view of the path ahead, and the sight nearly made her stop dead in her tracks. A lone warrior was fighting the dragon, standing out in plain sight upon the top of a hill, with nothing to protect himself but a single shield. He didn’t even have a bow to shoot out the dragon’s wings, but was trying to fight it from the ground while it was still able to fly.

What an idiot!

She had to give him points for bravery, however, as he stood there and endured the full force of a Fire Shout, before suddenly swinging up his sword and slicing a notch nearly dead center on the dragon’s snout. It had to be a deep slice, considering the amounts of blood spurting from just above the mouth with every heartbeat. It wasn’t a killing blow, not by far, but it would hurt and continue to hurt, and no doubt anger the dragon more.

Whoever it was on that hill, he had balls. Big ones, too, probably made of ebony or something equally impressive. As she ran towards the fight, she saw the cocky son of a bitch raise his sword at the approaching dragon, the metal gleaming golden in the sunlight, before he ducked down behind the hill. Taunting a dragon so blatantly took an icy calm that she couldn’t help but admire—even if he was about to become lunch.

Suddenly her steps faltered as several little clues fit into place in her mind, though she refused to finish and reach the obvious conclusion. The man wore steel armor, the same as Vorstag. He fought with a Dwarven sword, like the one she had sent Vorstag. He had stupid amounts of bravery, like Vorstag who had once raced through a room of fire-spurting floor tiles even knowing he would get burned. She was only a few miles from Markarth, where Vorstag lived…

Gerhild tossed her pack behind a log, sheathed her axe, and quickly brought out her bow, having carried it strung and ready to fire because her mood had been so agitated. She pulled an arrow out of her quiver, fitted it to the bow, drew back as far as she could manage, and let loose almost before she aimed. The next moment she was running, sprinting down the beaten road, trying to reach the idiotic warrior before he was swallowed whole.

Damn him!

She paused again, just before the dragon disappeared behind the hill with the warrior, and let fly another arrow, this time piercing its eye. Unfortunately, this only encouraged the dragon to land, out of her sight and far too close to the warrior. She dropped her bow and pulled out her axe as she sprinted, breath split between cursing and feeding oxygen to her limbs, as she attempted to reach them in time.

It was taking too long, she thought to herself, as she scrambled halfway up the side of the hill, trying to come at the dragon from the side. She was intending to leap from a vantage point onto the dragon’s back, but when they finally came into view, they had switched positions so the warrior was now beneath her, his back to her. The dragon could see her, however, out of its one good eye, and something about her must have warned it that she was the Dragonborn. Perhaps it could sense those undead dragon souls rustling like restless snakes within her, or perhaps those dragons still living had been talking among themselves, spreading her description. Either way, it deemed her a greater threat, turning its head towards her in preparation to Shout.

She Shouted first, _“Fus Ro Dah!”_ The dragon was too large to be thrown through the air, but it was staggered and had to use all its limbs to keep it on its feet. At least this allowed her time to reach the warrior and berate his stupidity. “What the fuck do you think you are doing?” she shouted at him, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him towards her. Damn, it was Vorstag. Though she couldn’t see his tattooed cheek hidden inside his helmet, only one person had eyes so soft a brown, and that tiny scar between his left eye and eyebrow from a fistfight in Windhelm. The same fistfight where he’d gotten the nickname ‘Arctic Stones.’ Idiot.

“Dragonborn!” he sounded surprised, and even somewhat relieved. “Thank Talos! I thought…”

“What?” she badgered, her anger now directed at him, “You thought what, exactly? Because from where I’m standing, you weren’t thinking. If you had been thinking, you would have been behind a boulder shooting the damn thing with arrows to ground it, not slicing its nose from a hilltop!”

“Didn’t have my bow on me,” he answered, wondering if she was pissed at him or just pissed in general. Sometimes it was hard to tell, so he assumed it was a general sort of pissed-off and kept his voice calm. “Gave it to someone else to hold.”

“Someone else?” she asked, looking around, but all she saw was the dragon, still flailing its large wings for balance.

“They’re hiding nearby,” he explained, “I was on a job, escorting two people to Markarth. I gave one of them my bow because I didn’t have time to string it.”

“Why didn’t they string it then?” she asked, more curious than angry now.

“Because he’s barely thirteen, and I don’t think he has the strength to string it. Couldn’t we focus on the dragon first?”

She gave a short nod of her head, “Right. We’ll talk later… Look out!”

Her warning came too late. The dragon hadn’t been idle while they had their little argument, regaining its balance and training its one good eye on the noisy twosome. It had twisted, shifting around until it could whip its tail at them, the hard, spear-like tip aimed directly at Vorstag’s side. Gerhild leaped forward, blocking the hit with her whole body, taking the brunt of the force squarely on her back. She grunted as the wind was knocked from her lungs, grasped fingers onto empty air as her legs were swept off the ground, and blinked as her word threatened to grow dark.

Vorstag twisted out of the way of the blow, but saw that Gerhild hadn’t been so lucky. He couldn’t allow himself to watch her fly away, couldn’t allow himself to wonder after her welfare, couldn’t allow himself to become distracted again. The dragon needed to be killed first; then they could argue… er, talk. With this thought solely in mind, he attacked from the dragon’s blind side.

The tail seemed the likeliest place to start, being as it was momentarily lying still on the ground at his feet. But he had loftier aspirations. He took three rapid steps, jumped onto the base of the tail with one foot, and launched himself up its back. He landed to the side of the boney protuberances and used them as handholds and footholds to help him climb up the dragon’s spine. By the time he reached its shoulders, however, the dragon had realized that something was on its back and began twisting and bucking, trying to dislodge him. He grit his teeth and held on tight, waiting until the dragon tired itself out, and then began climbing further.

Once at the base of its skull, Vorstag wrapped his legs around the neck and gripped one of its curved horns in his hand. The other still held his sword, but from his position slicing at the hard scales wouldn’t do any damage. He also didn’t have the room to lean back far enough to drive the sword point first between the scales and into the brainpan. Feeling like he had just caught a sabre cat by the tail, he didn’t know what to do or how to let go without getting himself killed. Then the dragon bobbed its head up and down and shook it from side to side, trying to dislodge him, and he nearly brained himself on the edge of his shield.

“Vorstag!” a voice called to him. “Trade!”

He didn’t stop to think. He threw his sword through the air towards the voice, at the same time tracking the steel war axe heading towards him. He just missed catching it, as the dragon was still moving, and watched in consternation as it slipped past his outstretched hand. Then miraculously his fingertips managed to snag the leather strap at the end of the handle. Quickly he made a fist around the strap, holding on tight as the axe was brought up short by the loop and fell sharply against his leg.

He didn’t notice the blow, his armor protecting him from getting anything more than a bruise, and brought the axe around to hold in front of him. When the dragon paused, he adjusted his grip, spun it once in his hand to settle it and get the feel for the balance, and set his teeth for the grim task ahead. He had seen the Dragonborn do this once, so he was sure he could do it too, but she had spent nearly the rest of the night picking brain matter and gore out of the joints of her armor. Ignoring the thought of the gruesome task he’d have later, he leaned back, gripped the neck even tighter with his legs, and then brought the axe forward in a mighty arc.

It bounced off the top of the skull, nearly jarring his arm enough for him to drop it. “Use the other side first!”

“Aye,” he shouted back, flipping the axe around in his hand. On the back of the axe was a sharp point, meant for penetrating through hard bone, as opposed to the more commonly used blade along the front of the axe. “I figured that out!” He swung again, this time the steel point puncturing a hole in the dragon’s skull. It let out a roar of pain, but it wasn’t over yet. He swung several more times, pockmarking the cranium with holes, until he figured he had weakened the bone enough. Then he flipped the axe back to the blade side, and began methodically chopping his way past the bone to the tender brains within, all the while keeping himself in position with his legs and one hand.

Gerhild hadn’t been idle this whole time. Though it took a few moments for her to catch her breath and shake the ringing from her ears, she managed to regain her feet just as Vorstag reached his perch. Immediately she saw the difficulty he was about to have, one of the main reasons she continued to use a war axe instead of any other type of weapon. Racing around to the dragon’s side with the blinded eye, she called out for them to switch weapons. Her heart nearly stopped when she saw her axe about to slip from his grasp, but then he caught it and brought it to bear—wrong side downwards, of course—on the dragon’s skull. His terse answer to her shouted advice comforted her somewhat as she scooped his sword off the ground; at least he still had his wits about him if he could get short with her.

She watched just long enough for Vorstag to land his first strike, and then she began distracting the dragon with the sword. She couldn’t help but feel satisfaction as she hefted the blade, the Dwarven metal strong and sharp, the balance light and near the hilt. She had chosen a well-made blade for him. She swung it through the air, slicing a deep gouge across its face on the blinded side. Without pause she ducked underneath the neck and sliced at its other side, then danced to its front and widened the slice across its snout. It lifted its head and roared, half at her strikes coming fast and furious now, and half at Vorstag’s ceaseless battering.

It was hard to tell who landed the killing blow, not that it mattered so long as the dragon was dead. Vorstag struck with one last chop, the axe going in far enough to sink his forearm in warm, slimy, pinkish-gray brain matter. Gerhild stepped up from underneath, driving the Dwarven sword through the soft underside of the jaw and into the brain from below, showering herself in hot, sticky dragon blood. They both paused a moment, panting, feeling the beginning shudders of the dragon’s death throes through their weapons. She pulled out the sword and stepped back, just as Vorstag retrieved the axe and let go of the horn, riding the skull to the ground before he jumped clear and rolled.

He wanted to stay on the ground, every fiber of his being crying out for rest, but he also wanted to see Gerhild—the Dragonborn—absorb a dragon soul. He had seen her do it once, the sight still vivid and awe-inspiring in his memories. He rolled over to his front and pushed himself up to his hands and knees, only to lift his head and find a hand there waiting for him. He accepted it, grinning a dazzling white smile that was mostly hidden within his helmet, and let her help him to his feet.

She was as out of breath as he was; he could tell by the way her shoulders rose and fell with each breath. He swallowed to wet his mouth and throat enough to speak, “That was fucking awesome!”

She paused a moment and tilted her head, and he could imagine one delicate golden eyebrow raising itself onto her brow. Suddenly she threw her head back and laughed. The sound might have been genuine, but he knew she was a consummate actress. “By the Nine, Vorstag, you are such a Nord!” She let go of his hand—he’d have liked to tell himself it was with a little reluctance—and finished, “Taking on an Elder dragon single-handedly.”

Vorstag shook his head, resisting the urge to put his hands on his knees. “An Elder dragon? That thing,” he waved at the quivering body that was slowly beginning to tremble and smoke, “Was an Elder dragon? Huh, thought it seemed a bit bigger than the Frost dragon we took on.”

“Aye, and quite a bit tougher, you stupid ass!” She pulled her helmet and hood from her head to get a better look at him. Nearly every inch of exposed skin was red, some of it blistering, from the fire breathing dragon. He must still be too pumped with adrenaline from the fight to be feeling the pain. “Stuhn’s Shield, but you’re lucky to be alive.”

“I’m lucky you were nearby,” he agreed, removing his helmet. She stared at the strange red pattern, like some sort of odd war paint, covering his eyes and falling down the very front of his face and across his lips—leaving a white streak down his nose thanks to the nose guard on his helmet. She pulled off a gauntlet, her hand already glowing with the golden ribbons of a healing spell, and reached towards his face. Without waiting for permission, she started healing his burns and bruises.

“Ah, forgot how good that feels,” he sighed, closing his eyes, leaning in to the cool touch of her fingers on his heated cheek. Quickly all his aches and pains faded away, the tightness of his burned skin and the bone-deep bruises. He reopened his eyes when he felt her pull away. “Is something wrong?” he asked, before remembering the dragon. Of course, she still had to absorb its soul after its body finished burning away. He turned to watch her stalking towards the corpse just beginning to disintegrate.

Gerhild acted like she hadn’t heard him, and after half a heartbeat he realized why. Someone else was there. It appeared to be a man, dressed in dark robes of an ancient style, richly embroidered with gold thread. Stylized pauldrons graced his shoulders, looking more like the spines of a dragon than armor. But it was the mask that made Vorstag’s blood run cold; it was similar to the masks worn by the strange bandits that had attacked Gerhild and Argis just outside Markarth. The same bandits that Gerhild said were assassins sent to kill her. Apparently, the person who sent them was standing there now, staring at her staring at him. Where the fuck had he come from? Vorstag knew he had been distracted by the fight with the dragon, but someone so singularly dressed should have attracted attention as he came up to them.

“Thank you for your help,” the stranger’s deep voice ghosted over them.

“No!” she ground out between her teeth. “I killed this dragon! Its soul belongs to me!”

“Not this time, Dragonborn,” he sneered at the title, making it apparent he felt it was undeserved, “This one’s mine.”

She roared defiance at him, and tried to get between him and the dragon, but it was too late. The dragon’s body finally gave up the last of its corporeal form and collapsed in on itself, leaving nothing behind but bones and scales and a strange, prismatic wind that was its soul. Quickly this other person absorbed the soul, laughing derisively at her attempts to block him. In anger, even knowing how foolish it looked and how futile it was, she swung Vorstag’s sword through the figure before her. The blade passed harmlessly through the body that wasn’t there, yet was there enough to steal the dragon soul. He began to fade away, finished with his task, and leaving behind a ghostly chuckle that left gooseflesh on Vorstag’s arms.

Well, at least that explained how he had sneaked up on them, if he wasn’t really there to begin with, or something like that, Vorstag thought to himself. Still, he had to ask, “Who was that?”

Gerhild had to take several deep breaths before she could frame a polite response, even going so far as to vent a little of her anger by giving one of the rib bones a vicious kick. “Miraak!” she finally spat out, “The First Dragonborn.”

Vorstag felt like the world was tilting. “There are more of you?”

She took one look at his face, and immediately her temper cooled, seeing that sad, lost little puppy dog expression. Of course he was confused. They had parted ways before she made it to Solstheim, so he wouldn’t know about Raven Rock and Skaal Village and Miraak and the All-Maker Stones and Black Books and Hermaeus Mora and…

Movement caught her attention, as Vorstag stepped up to lightly touch her shoulder. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”

“Drifting off in your deep thoughts,” he finished with a gentle smile, long familiar with her habits, “Aye. Listen, if you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t…”

“No, Vorstag, it isn’t that,” she reached out to touch him, to reassure him, laying her hand on his wrist, “But it is a long story.”

He nodded and took his hand off her shoulder. Suddenly realizing how forward his action must have seemed, he glanced around for something to do. Seeing his helmet lying on the ground from when it had slipped out of his grip during the strange visitation, he bent over to pick it up, brushing imaginary dirt off of the horns. He didn’t know why, but things were suddenly getting awkward and uncomfortable. “Gerhild, I…”

“Someone’s coming!” she hissed quietly, slipping on her hood. At the same time a youth’s voice called out, “Uncle Vorstag!”

“Fasett!” he almost yelled, his tone harsh and scolding, as he turned to face the two youths, “Faric! I thought I told you two to run for Markarth, not towards the dragon.”

“But we saw someone come to help you,” the boy answered.

“And we heard her Shout,” the girl added, turning to Gerhild who had just settled her helmet into place. Having been partly shielded by Vorstag’s body, she was fairly confident they hadn’t seen her face. “You’re the Dragonborn, aren’t you? Uncle Vorstag, you didn’t tell us you knew the Dragonborn.”

“Uncle Vorstag?” Gerhild couldn’t help but feel a little humor over the title, along with a healthy dose of confusion. She had thought he told her that he was an only child.

He groaned and rolled his eyes, even as Fasett came up and slipped her hand inside his. “It’s a long story,” he said to Gerhild before standing the girl back at arm’s length. “Fasett, I’m covered in dragon blood, and worse. I don’t want this to get on your dress, or your aunt is going to be mad at me. Think of what she would say, if the first time she sees you you’re covered in blood and gore.”

“Her aunt?” Gerhild tilted her head, her eyebrow raising within her helmet. She didn’t think she’d been gone from Markarth that long. “Not… your wife…” Vorstag couldn’t be married, at least not to a woman; his pickaxe swung the other way. But if he spoke of the children’s aunt, and they called him uncle…

“Gods! No!” he almost shouted, managing to sound shocked and humored at the same time. “Their aunt, Voada, works in Understone Keep. She hired me to see them safely to her in Markarth. Their parents died, and…” his voice trailed away, as he saw the two youths move closer together when their parents were mentioned.

Gerhild noticed their actions, too. “Long story,” she finished for him. He nodded.

“They started calling me Uncle Vorstag all on their own, but I’m not a relation.” As he turned back to speak with them, she felt her knees give a little tremble, but it couldn’t have been relief she felt. What was there for her to feel relief over, other than another dead dragon? She looked at the bones while Vorstag checked over his charges.

“Nothing broken? No scratches? No bumps or bruises? Are you sure? The Dragonborn here is very good with healing spells.”

“We’re alright,” Faric answered for them, “And I kept your bow safe, see?”

“We also picked up her bow and pack,” Fasett added, “In case you forgot where you dropped them.”

The Dragonborn turned back towards them and gave a small bow as she took her things from the children, at the same time exchanging weapons with Vorstag. The Dwarven sword was nice, but she preferred her Skyforge steel war axe. “Thank you, Vorstag, Lady Fasett,” she teased the girl, getting a blushing smile in return. “And Lord Faric.”

“We’re not nobles,” he rolled his eyes. “We’re farmers. Or… our parents were. Now we’re gonna be cooks.”

“Assistant cooks,” the sister corrected.

“You won’t be anything unless I can get you to Markarth in one piece,” Vorstag broke in before the two could start a fight.

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Gerhild commented, “Now that the dragon is taken care of. And,” she squinted off into the distance, “I think I see reinforcements arriving from Markarth. A lookout or someone must have spotted the dragon. Too bad they missed all the fun.”

Vorstag’s charming grin was back in full force. “Aye, that was fun. Like old times.”

“You two used to adventure together?” Faric asked.

“For a little while. Listen, Vorstag, I… ah… should get going. I was on my way… elsewhere… when I just happened to be close enough to hear this dragon, and… I should… really… just get back to my journey… where I was going…” Stuhn’s Shield but she just sounded like the village idiot.

“Oh, ah, heading south?” he asked, catching on despite her clumsy delivery. Gerhild had always been so good at acting, he wondered if something might be wrong.

She was wondering the same thing, feeling heat steal onto her cheeks. Must be from the stuffiness of her helmet after an invigorating battle. Sure, she was glad to see him, and glad he was in one piece, and glad that he wasn’t married… Where the hell had that thought come from? Inwardly she shook her head at herself while outwardly she said, “I have business to attend to in Falkreath. Normally I would help you see these children safely to Markarth, but like I said, there are reinforcements already on their way. I’ll leave you in their hands.”

“Of course, Dragonborn,” he bowed to her, “We wouldn’t want to keep you from your business. Thank you for helping with the dragon.”

She took his forearm in the Nordic fashion and gave him a curt nod. “Farewell, Vorstag. Faric. Fasett.” She gave the children each a similar nod before letting go and turning away. She slung her pack over her shoulder, and in less than a minute had disappeared from view around another hill.

“Wow…” Faric breathed, “The Dragonborn. The real Dragonborn. And you know her. Aunt Voada is never gonna believe this.”

Vorstag had a feeling she was going to be rather less impressed than her niece and nephew. But more importantly right then, a tiny little candle flame of hope was burning in his chest. If the Dragonborn was in this area, then it was possible—ah, gods, let it be possible—that Gerhild was returning to Markarth. Alone. Without Ulfric. Though he knew he shouldn’t do it, though he knew it was going to cause him more pain and grief, he allowed himself that spark of hope. He was feeling lucky, after all; since Talos answered his prayer today by sending the Dragonborn to help fight the dragon, then perhaps Mara would answer his prayer this one time and send Gerhild to Markarth, even if only for a little while.

He finished his silent prayer and turned his attention back to his two charges. “I think we should wait here for those soldiers,” he suggested, thinking that if the Dragonborn was heading to Markarth, she’d need time to circle around where no one would see so she could arrive ahead of them as Gerhild.

“Why?” Faric asked, not really caring but feeling curious.

“Because,” Vorstag grunted as he settled himself down on the slope of the hill, “I’m exhausted. I just finished fighting a dragon. I don’t think I’d have enough energy right now to fight off a rabbit, much less a sabre cat or cave bear. Let’s wait for those soldiers,” he nodded towards the dozen or so men and women trotting towards them, “And head back with them. It’ll be safer for you two.”

"Alright," Fasett sighed, sinking onto the grass next to him. Vorstag got an uncomfortable premonition that she was developing a crush on him. He looked over to Faric, but the boy was rummaging through the dragon bones, crying out excitedly over the items he found. The dragon must have eaten recently, Vorstag thought to himself, seeing the boy pick up a few septims and an iron boot that hadn't been digested. Thankfully when the dragon's body burned away, it didn't leave behind any gore, or Faric would be soiled up to his knees and elbows by now.

The next several minutes he spent leaning on one elbow, idly watching the boy while waiting for the guards to finish arriving. At one point, Faric held up the iron boot and asked, "Uncle Vorstag, can I keep this?"

He nodded, "Aye, I don't see why not. I don't need an iron boot. Neither did the Dragonborn, or she'd have taken it. Ya know, you might be able to sell it to the blacksmith for a few coins. Keep the septims too, Faric, for you and your sister.” The boy smiled and continued to rummage for more treasures.

The guards approached a few minutes later, and the Captain asked in an awed voice, "What happened here? We got a report of a dragon, but…" she gestured to the bones.

From his relaxed position the ground, Vorstag looked up and grinned, "Well, that's a long story…" And he fully intended the telling to take a long while, giving Gerhild as much of a chance to reach Markarth ahead of them.


	4. Secrets and Lies and Half-truths

Markarth, the City of Stone, where nothing ever changes. Ever. It was almost depressing, Gerhild thought to herself as she entered the city through the front gate, how predictable things were in Markarth. There in front of her stood the open market, Degaine rudely begging for alms and cursing everyone who ignored him—which was everyone who was there. Hogni’s voice could be heard above the cursing, as he tried to sell his meat while it was still fresh. She had never bought from him, as she considered the meat of questionable origin. After all, he claimed he got his meat directly from the Orc hunters who lived in the nearby stronghold. The meat looked fresh, already butchered and ready to cook, including the mutton. The only problem—there was no source of mutton in Skyrim. It made Gerhild question what was the meat really…

Another long familiar sight was Kerah and her small jewelry stall. Gerhild smiled privately as she saw Kerah’s husband, Endon, coming up to the stall. As a member of the Thieves Guild, Gerhild had started to make a few contacts in the other holds, helping the Guild to regain some of its former glory. She knew Endon was open to the idea of doing business with the Guild, but she couldn’t approach him yet. Markarth wasn’t quite ready to support any Guild activity, but one or two small jobs while she was here might make things better for the thieves. Endon caught her eye and gave her a small nod, acknowledging her connection with the Guild, but turned away immediately afterwards to speak with his wife, stating loud and clear—though without words—that he was not ready to deal with the Guild. Kerah smiled a greeting to him, blissfully unaware of any illegal tendencies Endon may now or in the future possess.

Gerhild’s private smile turned to a private frown, thinking about the couple and secrets and marriage. Marriage: it was a thought that seemed to be coming up often in her life. As Brynjolf had been more than willing to point out to her, she was young and pretty and of age, and had more than enough money to tempt any suitor into overlooking any distasteful qualities, if she had any distasteful qualities.

Yet it was Gerhild who did not wish to be married. First, there was her difficulty having sex with anyone, though Ulfric had the patience to keep trying. Her continual failures, however, began to leave a sour taste in her mouth every time she thought about attempting it again. It was now to the point where she was taking pains to avoid Windhelm, if only to avoid having to explain to Ulfric why she wanted to stop trying. It made her feel ashamed, how adamantly he refused to give up on her, even though she was more than ready to resign herself to the fact that she could never love and be loved by a man.

If her issues with closeness hadn’t been enough of a deterrent, there were her secrets. So many, many secrets. She was beginning to get the feeling that she couldn’t be honest with anyone, not even herself, since she was living so many lies and so many lives. For instance, here in Markarth, as in Whiterun, she was Lady Gerhild North-Wind, though in Whiterun she could wear revealing gowns now that her scar was gone. Here in Markarth, however, they all knew she had been scarred by a Hagraven, and anything low-cut had to be avoided or there would be questions on how the scar had disappeared. It was a great inconvenience, not being able to use her distracting figure to its full advantage, but a necessary part of her role here in the Reach.

There was also her life as a thief, which was—she could easily admit it—nothing more than pure self-indulgence. She didn’t have to steal for a living like she did when she was a child, but things kept finding their way to catch her eye or slip into her pockets. It was a rare person who could tolerate such impulses. Joining the Guild in Riften had felt like—coming home. She was comfortable around Mercer and Brynjolf and the others, knew the rules already and had no trouble obeying them, and even managed to help pull the Guild out of its recent slump. As an added bonus, she had discovered that face sculptor who had removed her unwanted scars, as well as altering her appearance before and after her little jaunt into the Thalmor Embassy.

That brought to mind the Thalmor, and what they had done to her. So many secrets…

There was always the most devastating secret of all—that of her being the Dragonborn. Very few knew that secret, and she wished fewer of them knew, but some of them couldn’t be helped. Ulfric of course knew, as he kept his promise to help her learn the Way of the Voice. Jarl Balgruuf and his court in Whiterun knew, as they had been there when the Greybeards called for her. Other than that, she tried to keep it to herself, but every so often someone would suspect. Finding ways and thinking of lies to divert them was a constant mental strain.

And if she ever—ever!—married, how could she keep such a secret from her own husband? Worse, what would he feel and say and do once he found out? And he would find out; being the Dragonborn wasn’t something she could keep secret from someone who would spend so much time with her. No, she could never marry, even if she could get past her difficulty with intercourse, as she could never willingly share so much of herself. And there was no man willing to accept from her the small amount she was willing to show him. There was no man who would not feel the need to dig deeper to find what lay beneath the surface of Gerhild North-Wind.

Therefore, there was no man who could ever become her husband.

She pushed all ideas of men and marriage from her mind, realizing she had been standing still for far too long, lost in her deep thoughts. It was a dangerous habit, as she often got so far in her thoughts that she ignored what was happening around her. Thankfully she only did it when danger was not present, though seeing Ogmund bearing down on her with a large smile and outstretched arms made her reconsider. She had wanted to sneak up to Vlindrel Hall before anyone spotted her, but it was too late to escape now. Mentally shoring up her endurance, she smiled in return and prepared herself for a rather physical, and vociferous, greeting.

“Lady Gerhild!” Ogmund wrapped his arms around her. She was sure his booming voice alerting the whole of the city. It wasn’t too surprising he had such a talent for projecting his voice, considering his training as a bard and his duties as the town crier. “Gods, I haven’t seen you for more than a year! How are you? When did you get back to Markarth? Why didn’t you send word you were coming, or did you?” He pulled away to give her a knowing wink after this last question, though she couldn’t for the life of her think of what he could mean.

“Ogmund, you old skald,” she returned vaguely as she stalled for time, “It’s good to see you, too.” What did he mean, asking if she had sent word of her return to Markarth? She hadn’t written Rhiada or Argis, though in retrospect she supposed she should have given them some warning, as they were her steward and housecarl. But even if she had written them, she didn’t know why they would have told anyone of her arrival.

Then again, judging by the greetings she was receiving now that she had been noticed, she seemed to be better liked here in Markarth than she realized. She allowed Ogmund to keep an arm around her as she acknowledged the welcoming smiles from everyone else.

“Milady,” he leaned in close to her ear, “Tell me you are thirsty from your travels, and desire nothing more than a tall mug of mead and a song or two.” It was a rather obvious hint for her to accompany him to the inn.

“I would like nothing more,” she smiled in answer, thinking it wouldn’t be out of character for her to go there and look for Vorstag, even though she hoped he wasn’t anywhere near Markarth yet. She had raced away from him and the children, Shouting a Thu'um that allowed her to move faster than normal. She used the Thu'um shamelessly and far too often in an attempt to have enough time to circle around and approach Markarth from the opposite direction. Even so, she hoped he caught her hint that he should wait for the patrol and give her enough time not only to reach the city ahead of him, but also to change out of her armor and into something more suitable to the Lady Gerhild persona. So far, it looked like she beat him here; still there were other matters she should attend to, first. “Except for the fact that I’ve been traveling all the way here from Solitude. I’m exhausted. I’m full of dust from the road. And my pack is very heavy. Let me stop off at my home first, perhaps freshen up a bit, and then I’ll meet you at the inn for an evening of music.”

“From Solitude, eh?” he asked, eyeing her shrewdly. “So, you didn’t see the dragon?”

“Dragon?” she feigned surprise mixed with a little fright. “What dragon?”

“There was a dragon spotted flying south of here. The guard was dispatched to attend to it, as it looked to be fighting someone or something on the ground.”

“Oh, I hope everyone’s alright,” she batted her eyes, appropriately concerned, as she started for her home.

“Don’t know,” he shrugged, walking with her down the street. “The guard hasn’t returned yet, but I suspect they can handle it,” he finished with more assurance than he felt.

"I'm sure they can," she agreed, thinking to herself the dragon had already been taken care of by her and Vorstag. Well, at least she had a solid alibi; Ogmund would confirm that she arrived in Markarth earlier than Vorstag, and from the opposite direction. She grew quiet, looking around at the city and reacquainting herself with the layout, nodding to people in passing, and soaking up the atmosphere through her skin to settle herself even further into the role of Thane of Markarth. A part of her felt comfortable being here again, recognizing the familiarity and realizing with a start that she had missed this place and its people and…

“You haven’t asked about him,” he broke into her study of her environment.

"Who?" she blinked at him, acting bewildered, though she already knew the answer.

“Vorstag,” he replied, “The one person you should have been asking after and looking for from the moment you entered Markarth.”

She dropped her gaze to her hands and shrugged demurely. “I didn’t want to appear that obvious.” Damn, but it was hard to play this role. She wasn’t sure exactly how interested in Vorstag she was supposed to act, as they were only friends. At least, she thought they were, though the abrupt way he left her last year—after that kiss!—had left her wondering what exactly was their relationship. Then again, just this morning while fighting the dragon, it had felt like old times, each knowing what they had to do and what the other needed of them, working in concert to fell the beast. On top of that were the strange winks and nods Ogmund kept giving her, as if he was sharing a joke with her, a joke she hadn’t heard yet. No, there was something else going on, something she didn’t understand, and the sooner she got to the bottom of it, the better.

“He’s not here, milady, I’m sorry.”

“He’s… he’s out on a job, I take it?”

“Aye, though he’s fairly picky about which jobs he takes nowadays. I think he likes to get out and stretch his legs every once in a while, just to stay in practice. He took a job last week, to go to Old Hroldan and pick up a couple of children, escort them to their aunt here in Markarth. He should be back any day now,” he leaned in closer, “If you were wondering whether or not you should wait for him.”

“Of course, I mean, I’ll be staying in Markarth for at least a month anyway,” she declared, as if Vorstag had nothing to do with it. Actually, remembering her conversation with Kodlak, Vorstag had everything to do with her visit to Markarth. She could have—should have?—returned to Whiterun as soon as she had finished her business with the Blades at Sky Haven Temple. But since she was in the area, she decided to take Kodlak’s advice and see Vorstag. She needed to talk with him, to settle this… awkwardness… between them. Especially after the battle with the dragon; the natural and comfortable feeling she had fighting with him at her side was so different from the strangled feeling after the abrupt kiss just before he left her in Windhelm. It would be best if they reconciled whatever it was that had happened to break their friendship. Stuhn’s Shield, but she could count on one hand the number of friends she had; she couldn’t afford to lose a single one.

Ogmund saw the disquiet in her expression, and misinterpreted it, “Don’t worry, my dear, he’ll be back long before then. I know he didn’t have time to leave a note for you before he left. This job came up rather suddenly, sort of an emergency. But he’ll be fine and back here before you know it.”

“Oh, I’m not worried, that is, not about Vorstag, I mean, I know he’s, oh, we’re here,” she broke off her babbling as they reached the porch in front of her house. Had he just said that Vorstag didn’t have time to leave her a note? But Vorstag couldn’t read or write, she was sure of it. How many notes and letters had she shared with him, and he only nodded and feigned interest, watching her point out the pertinent words and sum up the message? No, she was sure he couldn’t read, just as sure as she was that he preferred men to women. So, why would Ogmund comment about Vorstag leaving her a note?

“Ya know,” he said quietly before he let her go inside her house, “Don’t mention this to the boy, but I am very grateful towards you, finally doing what I never could.”

“Oh,” she seemed to be making that noise a lot this evening. She raised an eyebrow, curious despite the need to get inside and freshen up, “What did I do, that you never could?”

“Encourage him to learn to read and write,” Ogmund answered, as if it should have been obvious. “I’ve been trying for years, ever since he was a lad, but he always insisted he wanted to be a sellsword, and wouldn’t need to know his letters, that his employer would be the one reading maps and writing letters. It broke my heart, understandably since literacy is integral to being a skald. But the day he came to me, just after his return to Markarth, saying he wanted me to teach him his letters, well, I knew it was because of you.”

“Me?” she asked in a small voice, completely bewildered, her hand on the door latch completely forgotten.

"Aye, so he could write you all those letters this past year. Don't tell me you thought it would be a secret? In this city? Everyone's seen the two of you together, and I couldn't be happier that he's found a girl to catch his eye." As if suddenly realizing how his words might be taken, he cleared his throat and quickly added, "We all know how he's pined for you this past year, sending letters every month, telling you everything he's been up to. Oh, don't look so shocked. I suppose I shouldn't have tipped my hand and let you know we know, but I wanted you to know that a good thing has come out of it all. And I for one am grateful."

“Oh, aye,” she sighed, nodding abstractedly, “A good thing.”

“I have to admit,” he continued, oblivious to the reaction he was causing, “There have been moments he’s acted almost too strangely, and some of the employers he’s taken have seemed out of character for him, but keeping in mind his desire to impress you with his activities, it would seem logical for him to take a wider range of jobs. I hope you have been suitably impressed, considering all the pains he’s taken.”

Gerhild blinked, feeling like she was being drowned. Vorstag let them think he was writing her letters? Wait, Vorstag had learned to read and write in less than a year? Why would he…? Oh, of course, he was Ulfric’s agent here in the Reach, so he would have to report to Ulfric regularly. That explained everything: why he learned to write, and why he took jobs that were out of character for him. It also explained why everyone thought he was writing to her, so they wouldn’t know he was writing to Ulfric regarding the Imperial activity he saw during those odd jobs. It made perfect sense to her, now; she was merely an excuse for him.

So, when he saw her again, she should expect him to act affectionate towards her in case someone saw them, since he was supposed to be infatuated with her. Aye, it all made perfect sense. She patted Ogmund's arm, gave him a warm smile, though her eyes remained their deadly cold violet, and assured him, "I promise, Ogmund, I will be suitably impressed with his accomplishments, after he's had time to come back from his latest job. Now, let me freshen up, and I will come down to the Silver-Blood Inn for dinner tonight, and you can tell me all about what's happened here since I left."

“I look forward to it, Lady Gerhild,” he bowed over her free hand, pressing his lips to her skin, his full beard course and wiry feeling. “Until tonight.”

She didn’t speak again, but nodded and watched him turn to walk away. It was still a little amusing, thinking of how Vorstag was using her as an alibi, but she couldn’t blame him for it. It was the sort of thing she might have done, if their situations were reversed. And now she knew, if he acted affectionate towards her in any way, it was all due to his cover story, and she would act accordingly. She nodded to herself and, the problem of how to handle Vorstag neatly planned-out ahead of time, she stepped inside Vlindrel Hall.

And into a small crawling body. She looked down in surprise to see the baby, who was pushing himself to sit up so he could see what he had bumped into. Amazingly, finding a total stranger in his path didn’t seem to upset him. He smiled at her with his father’s hazel eyes and light brown hair, and she realized quickly he had to be the son of Eltrys and Rhiada.

Her examination of the child was interrupted by a male voice. “Maniel! Where are you, you little rascal… oh! Can I help you…?” The man was cautious sounding, understandably so, considering there appeared to be a stranger standing just inside his Thane’s home, and just before his friend’s child.

“Hello, Argis,” Gerhild lifted her face and smiled up at him as she shrugged out of her pack.

“Honor to you, my Thane!” he quickly squared his shoulders and clasped his hand over his heart. “I’m sorry, we weren’t expecting you, we didn’t know, I would have, well, Rhiada is…”

“It’s alright, Argis,” she soothed his flustered mind. She looked back down at the baby, who was now using her skirts to pull himself to his feet. Very carefully she reached down to pick him up, dropping her pack on the floor so she could hold him in both arms. There wasn’t any real reason to do so; she told herself it was merely the easiest way to remove him from her feet so she could walk again. “I should have written that I was stopping by, but since I was in the area already, I just thought that…” Her voice trailed off as Maniel settled himself contentedly in her arms, his head resting on her collarbone, his soft brown hair just beneath her jawline. It was a novel experience, feeling a small body so trustingly curled against her bosom, and it distracted her.

“I know your business takes you all over Skyrim, Lady Gerhild,” he was all formality as he approached her, “But this is your home. You don’t have to ask permission to visit. Can I take him from you?”

“Who?” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded a little dazed. “Oh, the baby. He’s Rhiada’s son, isn’t he? Maniel, if I remember correctly from your letters?”

"Aye," Argis agreed, dropping his hands when it appeared Gerhild wasn't going to pass the baby over to him. "He's just over a year old. Crawls around the Hall like a spider. And quick, too. I turned my back for two minutes, and he was gone." There was a touch of pride in his voice, as if he would take credit for the child's development and skills.

“Sounds like a handful,” she smiled, feeling a little flutter of something in her heart. Must be the leftover mudcrab she had for breakfast, giving her indigestion. She wasn’t that good of a cook, but at least she hadn’t managed to give herself food poisoning. Yet.

“Let me take your pack,” he offered, reaching around her to heft the knapsack effortlessly to his shoulder. “Feels like there’s armor in here. Does anything need cleaning or repairs?”

Only all of it, she thought to herself, still distracted by the baby. The sudden thought of Argis cleaning her kit made her jerk her mind back on track, thinking quickly. She couldn’t let Argis see her armor, or he’d see the dragon blood. Though he knew she could fight, and he might suspect the truth already, she hadn’t admitted to him yet that she was the Dragonborn. And there was that something inside her that wanted her to keep it a secret from as many people as possible. “No, my trip was fairly uneventful. I came straight here from Solitude.”

Argis’ shoulders gave a slight sag, some of the tenseness dissipating. “From the north. Good. I’ll put this in your room, then.”

She smiled at his back as he left the main room, thinking she knew the reason for his sigh of relief. She took a seat near the fire, but not too close, and settled the baby on her lap so they could look at each other. He smiled and clapped his hands, then reached up for one of her braids.

“No, don’t pull my hair,” she leaned away, making a frowning face. He only giggled and reached out again, making her frown and pull away again. “I said no,” she tried again, more firm this time, wondering just how much a baby could understand.

“Don’t tell him that,” Argis said as he came back into the main room, pausing at the table to pour something from a pitcher into a glass. “Every time he hears the word, ‘no,’ he sets out to do the very thing he was just told not to do. Seems there’s something obstinate about the boy.” He passed the goblet of wine over to her.

“Thank you,” she mumbled demurely, “And before you ask, I heard about the dragon to the south, but I wasn’t anywhere near him.”

Argis sat down across from her with a heavy sigh. “Thank the gods. Lady Gerhild, I really do not like the idea of you traveling alone. And it’s not just because of dragons. Or those strange bandits. Or any number of wild creatures that might attack you. You’re a Thane…”

"Which means I am capable of handling myself," she interrupted him, just as Maniel got his tiny fist around a dangling braid and pulled, proving her wrong. With a wince she gently pried his fingers away.

“Which means you have a reputation to maintain. Traveling by yourself is not in accordance with your status.”

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, thinking Argis sounded a lot like Lydia. Maybe they knew each other? Maybe it was just the training one went through to become a housecarl? She didn’t know, but it was awfully suffocating and inconvenient.

She was saved from having to answer him by the door opening. “Argis. Maniel. I’m home. Oh!”

“Hello, Rhiada,” Gerhild stood up, the baby still in her arms, and smiled at her steward.

“Lady Gerhild, so good to see you. Oh, it’s been so long. And you’ve missed so much.”

“Argis has sent letters to me in Whiterun, keeping me informed of the important matters,” she felt the need to argue, though mildly. “Though I was amazed to see your son is so big already.”

“Yes, he’s growing up fast. I am surprised, though, he usually doesn’t take to strangers.” As if on cue, Maniel began fussing and reaching out towards his mother.

“Spoke too soon,” Gerhild mumbled. Willingly she passed the baby back to his mother, feeling that twinge of indigestion again. Maybe she should travel with someone, as long as he could cook. Vorstag was a good cook—an excellent cook…

“Ah, will you be wanting supper…”

"No, no," Gerhild waved her off, gathering her wits. She must be tired if her mind kept wandering so easily. "Actually, I ran into Ogmund as soon as I came into the city. I promised to have dinner with him at the inn tonight, and he's promised to talk my ear off with all the gossip I've missed."

“Very good,” Rhiada nodded. Gerhild thought she knew why. She had already seen the small pot cooking by the fire, and knew there was only enough in there for two people. She supposed she should have written that she was coming, but when she left Whiterun she hadn’t been sure yet that she would or could come here.

“Well, I should get freshened up before I head down there. Lots of dust from the road to wash off.”

“One thing, my Thane,” Argis made to stand before the door leading to the master suite, giving Rhiada a simple gesture. It didn’t go unnoticed, but she pretended not to have seen it. “Well, actually two things. First, I suppose since you came from Solitude, you didn’t get my latest letter sent to you in Whiterun.”

“The one about the recent string of sabre cat attacks?”

“The one after that,” his deep voice rumbled. He looked shyly to Rhiada, who nodded encouragement to him. He took a breath and said, “Rhiada and I were married last week.”

Gerhild blinked at him, her bow-shaped lips parting in surprise. She had it on very good authority—straight from Vorstag—that Argis preferred men to women, though for some reason he liked to keep it quiet. She had never mentioned to him that she knew, nor would she ever, nor did it matter to her in the slightest. But it made his statement surprising. “Congratulations,” she proclaimed with joy, though truthfully she was confused.

“Thank you, Lady Gerhild,” Rhiada came up beside him, her son curled against her much as he had been against Gerhild a few moments before.

“Oh, this is cause for a celebration. We must have a party, music, food, dancing…”

“No, please, milady, don’t go to any trouble…”

“Rhiada, let me handle this,” Argis’ gruff voice cut over both of the women’s voices.

Rhiada looked up at him, and some unspoken message passed between them. Quickly she nodded and said, “I’ll get some washing water ready for you, Lady Gerhild. Excuse me.” She walked quickly to her room to set Maniel down where he couldn’t get in the way while she worked.

“My Thane, may I speak with you privately?”

Argis' voice continued to be commanding, pulling her attention away from her steward. She hummed an affirmative answer, turning to lead him into the suite of rooms at the back of the house, which held her bedchamber and a smaller bedchamber on opposite sides of a private dining room. Once inside her steps faltered as she noticed that the smaller bedchamber, which Argis had claimed for himself as her housecarl, was still very much in use. It surprised her again, and she had to reconsider what was actually going on between the two of them. Unfortunately, he saw where she was looking, and after he closed the door to the rest of the Hall he spoke softly, "Aye, I don't sleep with my wife."

“Argis,” she tried to dismiss the topic, beginning to feel uncomfortable, “It’s none of my business…”

“No,” he answered. “You should know, about Rhiada and me, as we all live under the same roof. We didn’t marry because we were in love; we married because it made sense, from a logical standpoint.”

"Logical standpoint?" Gerhild repeated, shaking her head in confusion. "You don't have to justify it to me, whatever the reasons, honestly…"

"We both agreed, though, that you should know, because we trust you. We're not in love. I…" Argis' voice faded away uncomfortably, as he glanced back at his bedchamber. She was amazed to see heat stealing across his cheeks, though she could easily pretend it wasn't there in the dimly lit room. He ushered her to a chair while he remained standing. "Though hiring Rhiada as your steward was a generous gesture," he continued, "It has caused some problems. There are certain proprieties that should be maintained, and we—the two of us—are living here together alone, and people talk."

“I wouldn’t think the fact that the two of you live here ‘unchaperoned,’ should reflect poorly on your characters.”

“You wouldn’t,” agreed Argis, “But the Silver-Blood family would.”

Gerhild sighed, crossing her arms, remembering how Thonar Silver-Blood was lusting after Rhiada shortly after his wife was killed, and how he arranged for the death of Rhiada's husband, Eltrys. She thought she had taken care of things before she left Markarth by hiring Rhiada as her steward and safely removing her from Thonar's attentions. Perhaps she needed to leave him a little stronger of a message. "I think I see now. Thonar was still hounding Rhiada."

It wasn’t a question, but he answered, “Aye, at least a couple times a week. I even tried escorting her whenever she had to go out, but that gets inconvenient sometimes. We thought, if we were married, then Thonar would finally leave her alone.”

“But, really—getting married just to keep a lecherous old widower off her back is…”

“It makes sense, my Thane,” Argis stopped her before she got too far, “And it’s mutually beneficial. Rhiada gets the protection of a husband. And,” he paused to swallow, “I get a wife and son.”

Gerhild paused a moment, trying hard not to look at the small bedchamber. “Argis…”

“I… I think you should know… Rhiada already does… I don’t like…” he gave up trying to speak, shaking his head and taking the chair next to her. She didn’t speak either, but reached out to set a cool hand on his wrist, encouraging him without words. “By the Nine, er, Eight,” he quickly corrected himself, hoping she didn’t notice. Dropping his head, he finally blurted, “I like having sex with men, not women.”

She waited all of three seconds before asking, “And why should that make you have to marry Rhiada? She is a woman, after all.”

“My father,” he answered with a sigh, still not looking up. “He’s a minor noble, I’m his second son, when he found out that I… what I am, he made his low opinion of me very clear,” he stopped, his hand pulling out of her grasp to rub at the scar that had blinded one eye. “It’s in his will, that the only way I am to get my inheritance is if I am married with a family. Rhiada… she likes me well enough, and Maniel could be like a son to me. Then my father is satisfied, and my older brother, too, no longer feels he has to challenge me to a duel.”

Gerhild took a moment to digest all he had said, and even more what he had left unsaid. “Your father and brother are both asses, you know that, don’t you?”

He gave a short bark which might have been a choked laugh. Whatever it was, she took it as a good sign.

"Very well, you and Rhiada are man and wife, but only on parchment. Again, this is something between the two of you, and none of my concern—or anyone else's, and I promise not to speak of it. But thank you for trusting me enough to tell me the truth. Now if you'll excuse me, I really do want to get cleaned up." She was already thinking she might forgo dinner and just sleep, she was that exhausted from traveling and fighting a dragon and racing to reach Markarth first and...

Argis seemed to have other plans for her. "My Thane, there's something else I feel you should know. It's about Vorstag," his words started in a tumble, almost as if he was afraid he wouldn't say them if he gave himself time to reconsider, "He's… not acting like himself."

“Oh,” there was that sound again. She must be off her game to have to resort to such a basic and obvious stall for time. Thankfully, Argis didn’t seem to notice.

“I know the two of you are close,” he began, “And I don’t mean to give offense, but he’s not been the same since he returned after traveling with you.”

Her brow furrowed just slightly, uneasy that she couldn't figure out ahead of time what he was trying to tell her. She wasn't ready to handle yet another surprise revelation about Vorstag, but it appeared she would have no choice in the matter. Shoring up her mental agility, she prepared for the worst. "What do you mean? What's wrong?"

“He’s… well… for one thing, after he came back, he had this fanatical desire to learn to write.”

“Aye, Ogmund mentioned as much,” she said cautiously, hoping that this was all he had to be concerned over.

“Well, we all thought it was because, well, the two of you, that is, he wanted to learn to write so he could write you letters. But he doesn’t, he hasn’t, has he? Written to you. Nor have you written any letters to him. He’s writing to someone else, isn’t he?”

Gerhild didn’t so much as bat an eye or give a guilty swallow, “Whom he writes,” she began calmly and clearly, “Or doesn’t write, isn’t any of your business. Sorry to be blunt, Argis, but that’s the truth.”

“No, it is my business,” he shook his head, “It is when it endangers my Thane. And if everyone thinks he’s writing you, but he’s not, it involves you and puts you in danger, if he’s doing something illegal.”

“Argis!”

“I’m not finished,” he raised his voice only slightly. “There’s more. He wears that ring, the Silver-Blood ring. We all know it was given to you, but we don’t know how he came by it. For a while, some of us thought he did away with you and took the ring for himself. I thought it possible, even though I knew him from when we were younger. And though you haven’t answered my letters, I knew if I kept writing them and you were dead, someone would eventually inform me of the fact. So I trusted your silence to mean you were alive.”

She blinked, not quite able to follow his logic so quickly, "Argis…"

“The jobs he’s been taking, too,” he plowed on, refusing to let her argue with him, “They’re out of character for him. This latest one is alright, going and fetching a pair of children, that’s the type of kind-hearted thing he would do, but some of the other jobs…” he paused to shake his head. “There was a man who caught his wife cheating on him, but the lover got away before he could call the guard. He hired Vorstag to track down and take care of the lover.”

She took a deep breath, trying to stall for time as she thought of a logical reason to explain his actions, "I admit, that does seem…"

"The lover took off for the mountains to the north. I know, I know, that doesn't seem odd. But Vorstag's actions after he returned were odd. Rhiada and I happened to be at the stables on some business when we saw him come back. He had a piece of parchment he was preoccupied with, kept checking it and making marks on it. As he was handing the lover over to the guards, I stole a peek at the parchment. It was a map of the area north of here, where he had just come through, and on it was marked an Imperial campsite. I think… I think he's…" he swallowed again, leaning forwards to take her hands. "Ah, gods, I don't know anything for sure, but I think he's spying for the Stormcloaks."

He said the last so quietly, she almost couldn't hear him. As it was, coldness gripped her heart in a fatal vice. She had known Vorstag wouldn't be able to keep it a secret that he was spying for Ulfric; she had told him just as much before he left her in Windhelm. Damn him. Now it was up to her to fix this before he ended up being tried for treason and losing his head.

Her laughter was light, like the pealing of small bells. She let herself laugh for a solid minute, despite the look of incredulity on Argis’ face, though the humor never reached her deep violet eyes. Finally she pretended to get herself under control and sputter to a halt, though a smile remained behind. “Really, Argis, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard since, oh, since ever! Vorstag? A Stormcloak spy?”

“I thought it was possible…”

"He's no more a Stormcloak than you are, or me, or Jarl Igmund." A lie was always more convincing if you slipped it in between some truths.

“But the jobs…”

“He got into debt…oh,” she batted her eyes quickly, acting like she had just let something slip, when in fact she was making it up on the spot. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this. It is his own, personal business, after all, but…” She bit her lip demurely, looking down where his hands were still clasped around hers. She whispered, “Do you promise you won’t tell him I told you?”

“Aye,” he nodded, completely thrown off balance by her humorous reaction, followed quickly by the intrigue of a secret. She knew she could tell him anything now, and he would believe her far easier than he had believed the truth. Still she hesitated, making even more sure that he would trust her next words.

“He got into debt. To me. It was silly, really. A stupid wager. And the betting got out of hand, the sum was far too high, there was no way he could have won the bet. Oh, he didn’t bet with me, but with someone else. And it probably would have been alright, but the man he placed the bet with—it was over a fistfight, and he lost both the fight and the bet. The man he placed the bet with wanted to be paid immediately. In septims. Vorstag had the money back here in Markarth. Only he had already promised his money to a smith, the one who made him the new armor. Anyway, I said I would cover the rest, and you know how prideful Vorstag can be…” she rolled her eyes, and got an answering smirk from Argis. So far, so good. “So, I paid off the bet, and he’s been sending me money every month, trying to pay me back. That’s probably why he’s taken so many jobs, even ones he wouldn’t normally take, so that he could pay me back faster.”

“And… the letters? He was writing them to you?”

"They were just brief notes at first, like, 'Ten septims for my debt. Vorstag.' Very abrupt. I thought he was still sore with me for covering his debt and wounding his pride, so I never bothered to write him back. But then the letters started getting longer, and it seemed sweet, ya know. I didn't catch on he had been learning to write, not until Ogmund told me this afternoon." She stopped to smile charmingly again, "It makes it even sweeter, doesn't it? I mean, he didn't have to learn to write just to impress me, but he did."

Argis gave his head a small shake, “But the map…”

“Oh, he was probably puzzling over some word on it, still learning to read and all. And he might have come across the camp by accident, and marked it on the map so he’d know to stay away from there. It’s not like he was going to show the map to anyone.” Well, that reasoning was weak, but if she kept him focused on other matters, he’d finish filling in the blanks for himself. “And yes, I gave him the ring, because I knew he wanted to come back here, and it would be quite some time before I would be here, and I thought he might get more use out of it than I would. Besides,” she dropped her gaze in a seemingly bashful manner, when she was hiding the fact that she wasn’t blushing, “I might have had other reasons for giving him the ring, ya know.”

Argis nodded his head, letting the matter drop. “Of course, my Thane, excuse my rudeness.”

“Oh, you haven’t been rude…”

“I only had your safety in mind. I’m ashamed I thought so poorly of Vorstag. It all makes sense now, Lady Gerhild, forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she shook her head, smiling and squeezing his hands. “I’m touched that you take such care looking out for me.”

“It is my duty, and my honor, my Thane.” He stood, her hands falling away with the movement. “I’ll go and fetch the water for you to wash in. Wouldn’t want you late for your dinner with Ogmund. And…” he paused, “You won’t tell him about any of this, will you?”

“Tell whom what?” she blinked innocently at him. “As far as I’m concerned, whatever has been said in this room today, was never spoken. Any of it.”

He nodded, words failing him, and left her alone, his shoulders a little less bowed with worry.

Once he was gone, Gerhild gave in to a moment of self-indulgence and blew out a heavy sigh. Damn Vorstag. She told him he wouldn't be able to spy for Ulfric, and she had been right. Even those who knew him well had grown suspicious of his actions. She left the table and headed to her room, preparing a very lengthy lecture in her mind that she would deliver to the obstinate Nord the first chance she got.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, it shouldn't need to be said, but for the record: just because I write a character with a certain prejudice or hatred, DOES NOT in any way, shape or form reflect my own personal views. My personal views are personal, and are not meant to be expressed by or through any character. I just like writing with diverse characters and diverse situations. If I do have an opinion I want to share, then I'll share it in these notes ;D


	5. That's the Way to End a Tale!

Gerhild was tired. No, she was exhausted, her thoughts returning again and again to her warm, quiet bedchamber inside Vlindrel Hall. But that was very far away; though only a few horizontal blocks from the Silver-Blood Inn, it was high on the mountainside, several stories above the city. She shouldn’t have come down here for dinner and to wait for Vorstag’s arrival. She should have stayed up there, and come down to see everyone tomorrow, as she was quite sure she wouldn’t have the strength to make the climb tonight.

Yet it was too late, she thought to herself, turning her face the same as everyone else as the front door opened to a loud cheer. Nearly a score of guards came in, still dressed in their Reach uniforms, loud and boisterous and demanding a free round of drinks. Kleppr protested out of hand, but one guard’s comment, raised above all the other voices, made him gladly reconsider. “Surely you’ll allow us one free round, for news regarding the Dragonborn being here in the Reach on this very day.”

The normal buzz of conversation in the main room reached a louder volume than usual, anticipating a tale involving the Dragonborn. Even Ogmund, ever alert for a new story, reached for his coin purse to offer to pay for the guards’ drinks. Gerhild of course already knew the story, though she was vaguely curious how much it might have already changed passing from Vorstag to the guards. She also meant to offer to buy their drinks, but instead caught sight of Vorstag’s horned helmet in their midst. About to stand up, she suddenly felt her knees give out beneath her and sat back down on her chair with a slightly ungraceful flop.

“Aye, milady, stay here,” Ogmund mumbled to her, leaning over so he could whisper in her ear and still be heard above the hum. “It’ll be more fitting to make him come to you.”

“Why, Ogmund, I don’t know what you mean,” she blinked at him.

He gave her that knowing wink, which was beginning to become annoying. “Just stay sitting down. He hasn’t spotted you yet, and I want to see the boy’s face when he notices you.” His face split into a grin full of delicious anticipation, before he got control of himself and moved to partially block her from view. He joined in with the rest of the patrons, encouraging Kleppr to grant the free drinks in exchange for the news.

Gerhild felt she ought to protest; she hadn’t meant to sit back down and act like she couldn’t make up her mind on whether or not to make her presence known, but her legs had suddenly grown weak. It must be from exhaustion, she reasoned, as there certainly wasn’t any other reason why she shouldn’t be able to stand. Deciding to garner her strength, she pretended to take the skald’s advice and remained in the chair next to the fire, almost at the back of the crowd now clamoring for the story, safely hidden within Ogmund’s shadow.

“I shouldn’t stay for even one round, really,” Vorstag protested weakly from the very heart of the mass of guards. “I need to finish my job, first, get the children to their aunt, ya know.”

“Come on, brave warrior,” one of the guards coaxed, “One drink won’t take that long. And we need you to tell the tale.”

“Besides, we’ve sent word to the Keep that the children are safe. Their aunt will come here to collect them.”

Vorstag felt his cheeks redden, “Honest, friends, I’d love nothing more, and I promise I will come back and tell the story, but my job comes first.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” a woman’s stern, tired voice sounded from behind them. Everyone had been focusing on the guards, and their semi-captive warrior with his pair of children, so no one noticed the front door had opened again. There, just inside the inn, stood Voada, looking like a queen even in her rough spun clothing with soiled sleeves. Her hair was damp with sweat, and a few smudges of grime stained her face, but her bearing was regal with her chin raised and her arms akimbo. “It’s been a hard day of good, honest work for me, only to be summoned by the guard to come all the way down to the front gate to collect my niece and nephew.”

“Mistress Voada,” Vorstag bowed, not at all intimidated by her demeanor. “May I present Faric and Fasett, whole and unharmed, into your care.”

“Aunt Voada,” Faric managed to push his way through the guards to reach his aunt, craning his neck to look up at her stony face. “Uncle Vorstag was just about to tell everyone about the Dragonborn. Can we stay for the story? Please?”

Fasett had remained at his side, her hand firmly in his. “Please?” she added in a singsong voice. “The story has everything in it, a dragon, the Dragonborn, a hero.” She lifted her shining face up, and again Vorstag felt his cheeks burn, thankful the helmet hid his embarrassment over the girl’s flattery.

“Dragon…?” Voada’s voice sounded fearful, her face paling. Even though the two children stood before her, completely unharmed, her mind began conjuring up images of dragons gulping the children down whole…

“As you can see, they’re fine,” Vorstag quickly tried to head off any tirade she may have been forming. “Honestly, they weren’t anywhere near the fight with the dragon…”

“No, no, no,” one of the guards called. “No more talking, until we get our free drinks!”

Gerhild thought this would be a good time to laugh. The guards were all adamant, Vorstag resigned, the children excited, Voada sick with worry, Kleppr undecided… It was very entertaining to watch, but she kept quiet tucked away in her corner behind the sea of onlookers and waited for the verdict.

The stalemate lasted for all of fifteen seconds before Kleppr scowled, “Hreinn, come and help me pour. The sooner we get these leeches served, the sooner we get the story.”

The cheer was deafening, almost making Gerhild wince and put her hands over her ears. The father and son worked quickly and efficiently, filling the mugs while the wife and daughter worked to pass them out to everyone. Even she got a mug, though thankfully she had remained unnoticed by Vorstag. He was facing away, trying to placate Voada while freeing himself from Fasett’s possessive grip.

“Alright, you’ve got your drinks. Now, Vorstag,” Kleppr turned an expectant eye at his resident sellsword, “Tell us about the dragon, and the Dragonborn.”

“Ah, well,” he began, taking a small sip—all he could handle through his helmet—to wet his lips. He had finally managed to place Fasett in Voada’s custody, and began moving around as he told his tale. “As you may or may not know, I was hired by Mistress Voada to collect her orphaned niece and nephew from Old Hroldan, a good distance from here.”

“Get to the dragon!” an anonymous voice called.

“In a minute,” he replied unruffled, “As Ogmund will tell you, it’s important to set the tone of the story, which is what I’m doing. It was a normal job, fairly easy, and nothing unexpected happened along the way. That is, until this morning.”

“Aye, now we’re getting to the good part.”

“Quit interrupting and let him tell the tale,” Ogmund growled just enough to be heard by everybody. Vorstag flashed him a toothy grin, barely discernable beneath his helmet, and took another sip.

“Where was I? Oh, right, this morning. The weather was fair, with a clear sky and hardly a breeze. Beautiful clean mountain air. And I knew we would make Markarth by noon. Everything had been going so well on this job, I supposed I should have expected the trouble. But no one expects a dragon.

“It was flying through the air,” he swept on, spreading one arm out as if he was the dragon, “Flapping its great wings and Shouting with supernatural strength. Its keen eyes studied the ground for prey, and I knew we wouldn’t remain hidden for long, even crouched down within a shallow cave. Fear gripped my heart, I’m not embarrassed to admit. I feared not for my self, but for the children. They had already been through so much, it would not have been fair for them to end up as dinner for a dragon. I looked at them, huddled together for comfort, and I knew I couldn’t let them die. Even if I had to face the dragon single-handed.

“I told them to stay under cover, to wait until I had lured the dragon away out of sight, and then they were to run down the road and not stop for anything until they reached Markarth. Then, my sword drawn,” he lifted his mug as if it were the weapon, “I charged down the road, calling a challenge to the dragon, taking its attention off of the children.”

Everyone had grown silent, listening to his storytelling, and Gerhild couldn’t help but think again that he might have missed his calling as a bard. She already knew he could sing—and dance!—but she hadn’t realized just how good he was at engaging a crowd and holding their attention through words alone. Her eyes followed his movements as she listened, nearly as rapt as everyone else, to the point where she took a sip of her mead before remembering she didn’t like the taste.

“It spotted me quickly, of course, which is exactly what I had foolishly intended. Eager to fill its belly, it swept down on me, Shouting a breath of fire that burned a swath through the prairie grass until it homed in on me. Immediately I stopped running and cowered behind my shield. Aye, friends, I cowered. No one in their right mind would willingly and bravely face a dragon—not even the Dragonborn. You face a dragon knowing it could kill you, and you increase your odds of survival tenfold.”

He paused again for another swallow, and the crowd was so quiet Gerhild could hear the liquid pass down his throat.

“After the dragon flew past, I resumed my course. I was heading for a hill, for the very top, where I could be sure to keep its focus on me and not the easier snack of two young children. It worked, the dragon turning in the sky and keeping me in its sights. I tried not to think of how I was trapped on top of that hill, vulnerable and as exposed as if I were strolling through the streets of Markarth without any pants.” A few smatterings of laughter answered this, the absurdity a counterpoint to the tension of that part of the story. Vorstag swept on, however, keeping his rhythm.

“Then another stupidly brilliant idea came to mind. You see, the first rule of fighting a dragon is to ground it. Shoot out the membrane of its wings so it cannot fly, and it has to stay on the ground where it is easier to fight. I hadn’t done this, even though I knew it from experience, as I had to lure it away from the children. But now that I was ready to fight it, I had to find another way to ground it, and quickly I formed a plan. On its next pass, I again cowered behind my shield, tightening the grip on my sword, smelling the wood burn and feeling the steel heat up until—at just the right moment—I dropped my shield and raised my sword and smote the dragon on the very end of his snout!”

Gerhild critically thought the word ‘smote’ might have been a bit over the top, but as his audience was listening in rapt silence, she decided not to comment.

“It screamed in agony, drenching me with hot dragon blood as it flew past. I knew it wasn’t a fatal blow—far from it!—but it had worked to claim its attention for me alone. I waited until it looked me full on, and raised my sword still dripping with its blood to taunt it into following me behind the backside of the hill. It followed, no longer looking for a meal but eager now for revenge. With the force of an earthquake it landed before me, flaring its wings and roaring its ire. I struggled to keep my feet, as falling or even stumbling would have spelled my doom. It Shouted, and I ducked behind my almost useless shield. As soon as it stopped to catch its breath, I raced around to its side and attacked a wing. It screamed again and beat the air with its injured wing, turning in place to buffet me with the hurricane force winds.

“I know not how long we fought…” he was in full stride now, his voice a rich baritone and without its subtle lisp. His arms gestured each and every blow, foaming mead spilling over the rim of his mug to fall like heavy raindrops to the floor. Gerhild could barely keep a straight face as he embellished shamelessly, exaggerating both the fight and the time it took her to reach them. She was sure she had rounded the side of the hill long before then, but according to Vorstag he had to battle the dragon by himself half the day. He worked his way around the room, coming at last close to the hearth where she sat in Ogmund’s shadow, still acting out the battle as he narrated the tale.

“Inevitably, I knew the fight had reached its conclusion. I felt my strength about to fail me, and my shield had burned and melted into a useless lump. I knew I faced a painful death, and could only pray that enough time had passed to allow the children to get away. I saw the dragon pull back, taking in a massive lungful of air, its one good eye aimed squarely for me, when it turned slightly away to look at someplace off to the side. But before it could Shout its breath of fire, another Shout sounded, plowing into the beast and staggering it nearly off its feet. I turned to see who was there, and came face to face with…” he spun in place, acting out that part of the story, turning away from the main part of his audience grouped around the central counter and towards the back wall and the hearth. At the same moment, Ogmund slipped to the side, revealing Gerhild sitting demurely on her chair, a mysterious smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “Dragonborn!”

Vorstag was flummoxed. Though he prayed for this very thing, he never truly expected his prayer to be answered so clearly and quickly. There she was, as fresh as a blue mountain flower in a rich velvet gown of deep violet, her dark gold hair tidy in its intricate braids, her cheeks flushed from the warmth of the fire, her bow-shaped lips parted invitingly as she listened to his tale. He knew he shouldn’t, that it would break the spell, but he couldn’t stop a stolen glance at her violet eyes, cool and dark and deep in the dim lighting. Gods, but she took his breath away…

Gerhild barely noticed his mentally staggered state. Her eyes were eagerly devouring his form, now that she had a full view of him, searching out every sign of damage to his armor. She knew she had already healed him with magic, but that seemed like days ago—another life—as she had been the Dragonborn at that time, not Lady Gerhild. Yet his body was sound, his limbs strong and steady, and his head firmly attached to his shoulders. His armor, though the fur padding beneath was singed, was still whole and secure. Looking up at his face, she found his helmet remained adequate for the job of protecting his head—and what little brains were in there—though the tips of the horns had been charred and blackened. And within the shadows of his helmet she met his gaze, his eyes soft and brown and full of emotion. That indigestion from the mudcrab returned to her chest, and she began to wonder if perhaps she shouldn’t try healing herself again.

She was the first to realized that the silence had grown too long, and in a clear and cool voice she said, “The Dragonborn? Truly?”

“Huh?” he responded softly, bewilderment obvious in his lack of reaction or cohesive thought.

“The Dragonborn,” she prompted, trying her best to ignore the scoffs and giggles from the crowd. “She was there. It was she who Shouted at the dragon.”

“Right,” he agreed, nodding his head emphatically. “Ah, the Dragonborn, she was there, and she Shouted, and the dragon sort of lost its balance.”

“What happened next?” she prompted again, willing him to gather his wits and keep up the act.

“Focus, boy…” Ogmund muttered under his breath, unheard by all except the two of them. Vorstag finally tore his eyes away from her to look at the skald, and remembered that he wasn’t alone with Gerhild. He coughed, his free hand rubbing at the back of his neck as he tried to remember where he had left off in his narration.

“Um, so, the Dragonborn was there, er, and she Shouted, ah, and the dragon took a long time trying to keep its balance. She came up to me then, the Dragonborn,” he glanced guiltily at Gerhild, and had to quickly look away as he feared he couldn’t continue if he held her gaze. He was already flustered, not having truly believed that she would be here, at the inn, waiting for his return. He would have expected her to have gone to her Hall, not be down here…

“What did she do?” Ogmund encouraged this time, clearly enjoying his discomfiture.

…not be down here where she could listen to his embellished story of how he had defeated an Elder dragon, with a little help from her. Merciful Mara, why had he ever prayed that she would come to Markarth? “So, we quickly discussed a strategy, me and the Dragonborn, but we left the dragon alone for too long.” It got easier as he turned away from Gerhild, focusing his attention on his audience. But always in the back of his mind he could feel her watching him, listening to his words, and he half-expected her to jump in and correct him on some minor detail. Blissfully she remained silent through the rest of his story.

“Its tail whipped out, striking like a snake, aimed directly for my heart. In and act of selflessness, the Dragonborn jumped in front of me and took the blow squarely between her shoulder blades.” Gerhild winced, remembering the blow well, and resisted the urge to shrug her shoulders. She had gotten quite a bruise from it, which she healed of course, but unfortunately her armor couldn’t be healed with a magic spell, and a small dent had remained that rubbed at her every movement. “The force of the blow sent her flying through the air. But I couldn’t look to see what had become of her. I trusted that she was made of sterner stuff than whatever a dragon could dish out, and focused on doing my part.

“The tail lay before me, spent and limp on the ground after finishing its strike. Without pause I jumped into the air, landing on it and quickly scaling up the spine of the dragon while its blinded eye was turned towards me. When I reached its head, I wrapped my legs around its neck to hold me in place and gripped the end of one horn for leverage. Then I leaned back as far as I could, and with all my might I brought my sword down upon its skull.”

An appropriate amount of gasping from the audience followed this, as they could all see the dried blood and gore on his armor, but his next words intrigued them. “And the sword bounced off the scales without even causing a scratch. I realized too late that the side of my sword would never slice through the scales, nor could I use the edge to pry between them. Sitting on the dragon’s neck at the base of its skull, there wasn’t any distance to bring down the point of the sword with enough force to penetrate. I was stuck, unable to do any damage with the weapon I had, and unable to backtrack to find the right weapon as the dragon would undoubtedly snap me up the moment I left my position.

“Then from off to the side, I heard a voice call out to me. There spinning through the air came a steel war axe, its blade sharp and glistening in the sunlight. Immediately I threw aside my sword and reached out for the axe. As it drew close the dragon shook his head, trying to dislodge me, and with fear I saw the axe fall away just beyond my fingers.” He paused to take a sip, dead silence filling the air as everyone waited for him to continue, hardly daring to breathe. “I made one last effort, nearly letting go of my perch, and stretched. Thank the gods, the tips of my fingers found the strap at the end of the handle and closed around it. I sat up straight once more, holding the axe triumphantly over my head, the dragon’s skull before me like a banquet table. Then I swung!”

He dropped his free hand with a swoosh, the audience gasping again. “And again the blade bounced off,” the audience groaned in frustration. “I realized, at the same moment the Dragonborn called out her advice to me, that I had to use the spike on the back side of the axe first, to weaken and shatter the scales and the bones before the blade could finish the job. So I spun the axe in my hand, settled it in my grip, and began pounding the spike onto the top of its head, over and over and over.

“The Dragonborn wasn’t idle, having been unharmed by the blow from the tail and able to regain her feet quickly. It had been she who tossed me her axe, already knowing it was a better weapon for the task. When she was satisfied I had my job well in hand, she picked up my discarded sword and harried the dragon, running around beneath its neck, slicing and thrusting and keeping it from being able to dislodge me. Together we worked on the beast, I from above and she from below, until at last I felt the bones shift beneath the spike. I switched the axe to the blade and began chopping through into the brainpan. She also sensed the end was near, and with one final thrust from below she drove my sword up into its brain. Between us the dragon gave a final whimper, dead long before its head collapsed to the ground.”

He paused again for another swallow, but this time the crowd cheered. “A dead dragon!” “Hooray for the Dragonborn!” “Hooray for Vorstag, Protector of Markarth, Defender of Children.”

On and on the cheering went, the normally easy-going sellsword more than a little overwhelmed by all the praise, but accepting it in his good-natured way. Gerhild smiled, listening to all the spontaneous honorary titles he was being given, and remembering the time he got the nickname ‘Arctic Stones.’ She wondered, if he ever claimed some of these titles, what order he would put them in.

“So, what happened to the Dragonborn?” Ogmund asked, always wanting to know how the story ended.

“She had to leave,” he stated simply, accepting another free mug. “Thank you, Mistress Frabbi. After the dragon was killed, its body slowly began to disintegrate, the flesh burning away until nothing was left but bones and a few scales. Then she took the soul,” he lied, thinking that Miraak or whoever he was didn’t need to be in this story. “It flowed through the air like a rainbow caught in a current, rushing from the empty bones towards her, whipping around her form until it finally was absorbed through her skin.”

“By the Eight!” someone swore.

“We talked for a little while, and she healed my skin where I had been burned.” He gave a little laugh, “In all the danger, I hadn’t even noticed I’d been hurt. Then the children came running up to us,” he turned to glare at the brother and sister, who raised nearly identical, innocent expressions up to him. “And we made sure they were alright. After that, the Dragonborn noticed that a patrol was coming from Markarth. She advised us to wait for them, and went on her way. I think she said something about heading towards Falkreath.”

“I wish she had stayed,” Faric bemoaned. “Uncle Vorstag, why wouldn’t she come with us here to Markarth?”

“She probably had important business wherever she was going,” he answered, not daring to look at Gerhild. “Besides, I don’t think she would be too comfortable in Markarth.”

“Because she’s a Stormcloak,” Fasett said, worming her way back to his side, her hand taking possession of his once again.

“Ah, no, she’s not,” he tried to push the girl away without seeming to be rude, but only managed to keep her at arm’s length. “I mean, she’s not a Stormcloak; she doesn’t take either side in the war. But, ah, well, let’s just say she doesn’t like large cities. She prefers the open air of the countryside; more room to maneuver when fighting a dragon.”

“Uncle Vorstag knows a lot about the Dragonborn,” Faric turned to his aunt, “Because they used to travel together.”

“Oh, when was this?” Ogmund asked. He thought he knew all about Vorstag’s adventures.

“Ah, well,” he hedged, and then took a sip from his mug to stall for time.

Come on, think, you dunce! Gerhild silently urged him to come up with a plausible explanation, preferably something that didn’t involve her, as she had already made it sound as if Gerhild had never met the Dragonborn. She watched him flounder, and was about to throw caution to the wind and answer for him, when he finally coughed and stated, “It was after I left Lady Gerhild… ah, I was traveling back here, and… she was fighting a dragon. The Dragonborn, that is, not Lady Gerhild, of course.” He paused to clear his throat before taking another swallow, hoping the matter would drop.

“How come I never heard about this first dragon?” Ogmund persisted, unwilling to let it go.

“Oh, well, because it was kinda embarrassing, on account that I didn’t do a whole lot to help. I heard all this ruckus down the road, and ran ahead to see this woman facing a dragon by herself. I charged in to try to help her, but she yelled at me to stay back and shoot it in its wings. I wasn’t able to do very much, other than shooting and watching her do all the work, nothing really to brag about. When the dragon was killed and she absorbed the soul, I realized she was the Dragonborn, and not some random adventurer. That’s when I learned so much about fighting dragons, talking with her after the fight. Anyway, I didn’t travel with her for all that long of a time, just while we were heading in the same direction along that road. When she veered north, I, ah, caught a wagon for the rest of the way here.”

Ogmund’s eyes narrowed, but Gerhild jumped in to head him off. “Oh, Vorstag,” she sighed, finally daring to stand. Her knees held her up this time, for which she was immensely grateful. She could just imagine what a scene it would make if she were to faint upon hearing about Vorstag’s adventures with dragons. Then she reconsidered, as the thought was tempting, and it would distract Ogmund before he found any holes in his story. She resisted the urge, however, thinking it would be overly dramatic and not wishing to steal away his attention this evening. “Are you alright? Truly? You’re not injured?”

He shook his head, his eyes glued to hers, forgetting both the mug and the girl in his hands. “Not even a scratch. The Dragonborn healed me with Restoration Magic before she left.”

“Good,” she batted her eyes, stepping up to him and also ignoring the girl hanging on his arm. Quite suddenly she made a fist and punched him on the exposed part of his other arm, just beneath the shoulder pauldron and right above the bracer. It wasn’t a hard hit—in fact, it was purposefully rather silly and weak—but it was only meant for show. “That’s for scaring me.”

“Scaring you?” he asked, bewildered. He managed to pull his hand out of Fasett’s grip to rub at the sore spot on his arm.

“Aye, scaring me,” she continued, pretending her fear and ire, acting the part of his love interest. “Whatever made you think you could fight a dragon on your own? Oh, Vorstag, what if you had been killed? How do you think that would make me feel, knowing that you only did it to impress me?”

“I… I did it to protect the children…”

“Aye,” she nodded, seeing that he hadn’t caught on to the role she was playing. She was going to have to do all the work. “And no doubt you thought it would have sounded wonderful in another one of your letters to me, writing how you bravely faced a dragon single-handedly so a pair of orphaned children could escape.”

“I… well, don’t you like my letters?”

She stopped, snapping her jaw shut. He had caught on at last. It threw her off her rhythm, as she had to quickly reorganize her thoughts and come up with an appropriate response. “Aye, I do, but I’ve told you,” she moved even closer to him, “You don’t have to do things just to impress me.”

They stood toe-to-toe, their noses almost touching, his soft brown eyes squaring off against her cool deep violet. Again he found himself at a loss for words or actions, not knowing what he did or when that caused her to act in such a manner that would suggest… Ah, gods, she couldn’t be suggesting that. He swallowed, not noticing his hand reaching up to grip her shoulder and hold her in place before him. He tried to force his mind to work, to keep thinking. She was only here because… She mentioned something about his letters… She was standing there, her face tilted up towards his, her bow-shaped lips moist…

Fuck it, he thought. Knowing there’d be hell to pay later, he bent his neck and kissed her.

He barely heard the cheer through his heartbeat in his ears, his entire being focused on the body within his embrace. His hands stroked slowly down her spine—hadn’t he been holding a mug? It didn’t matter now, he reasoned, pressing her body close, molding it against his, amazed that he found her so pliant. He felt her arms snake around his shoulders, unmindful of the filth soiling her expensive gown, holding onto him for support.

Ah, Merciful Mara, thank you, he prayed. Unable to fathom the reason why, he focused only on the fact that Gerhild was there, in his arms, warm and willing. He deepened their kiss, only to find his helmet got in the way. He didn’t want to take his hands away to remove it, however, so he pulled back just far enough to keep his cheek guards from pressing into her face. Yet he wanted more—so much more—surely she knew that. Surely she had come here, to Markarth, because of him. He had left her in Windhelm because he was sure she was sharing Ulfric’s bed, but with the way she was responding to his kiss, holding onto him because her knees were weak, fitting her form against his perfectly…

Gerhild thought he would never take the hint to kiss her. She practically had to initiate it herself, which would have made him look bad, and the whole point of this was to make him look good. At last, however, he seemed to get the idea and took hold of her. Still he hesitated, making her wonder just how reluctant he might be to the idea of kissing a girl. Well, he should have thought about that before he allowed everyone to think they were in love. The ass.

When he finally pressed his lips to hers, he over-acted his part shamelessly, putting far too much enthusiasm into it. So much so that she feared he was going to spill his mead down the back of her dress. Thankfully she felt Ogmund reach out to take the mug away before any accidents could happen. Then he was pawing her, his clumsy hands pressing her against the edges of his armor. She suppressed the wince, again only thinking of making him look good to their audience, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders as if their kiss was making her knees weak. She did wish someone would come up and remove the helmet for them, but thankfully Vorstag realized it had gotten in the way and backed off just enough to keep the edges from leaving marks on her cheeks.

Still, the kiss went on for far too long, in her opinion. True, they were supposed to be in love, and had been apart for over a year, so one could argue that they were making up for lost time. But a person needed to breathe!

Again Ogmund came to her rescue. “By the Eight, boy, that’s the way to end a tale!”

Cheers sounded again, and Vorstag reluctantly pulled his face back from Gerhild to look at the skald. “What?”

“With a kiss, dumbass. The hero receives a kiss from the lady. Would’ve been a better tale if she had been there, but as it stands, Lady Gerhild, I am glad you came from Solitude and missed the dragon.”

“So am I,” she agreed with a smile. She leaned into Vorstag’s side, her arm around his waist. He held his own arm around her shoulders, keeping her there, holding on as if afraid she would vanish into smoke if he let go. She looked back up at him, her smile warm and open, “And I am glad you’re alright.”

He was about to say something, he wasn’t sure what, but he felt the need to speak, to ask her something, just to assure himself that she was there and not a dream. He opened his mouth, giving his head a little shake, and tried to think of something intelligent.

“Uncle Vorstag,” Faric interrupted, his youthful voice full of awe, “Who’s the girl?”

The smile on Gerhild’s lips turned mischievous. “Uncle Vorstag,” she repeated, “I didn’t know you had any brothers or sisters.”

“Huh? No, I thought, I mean, didn’t I tell you, I’m not, they just…”

“I just got here, remember?” she spoke quietly under her breath, her cool voice barely reaching his ears, which continued to hum from their kiss. “So I wouldn’t know why they call you Uncle Vorstag.”

“Oh, right, of course, I…” He stopped and shook his head, dispersing the last of the ringing. He saw Gerhild duck out of the way of the horns, so he pulled his helmet off and dropped it onto a chair behind him. Having noticed that she took half a step away, he quickly reached out and took her hand, unwilling to let her escape. “Excuse me. I’ve forgotten my manners. This Faric and Fasett, the nephew and niece of Mistress Voada there. I was hired to escort them here from Old Hroldan. They sort of claimed me as their uncle along the way, even though there’s no relation. Children, I’d like you to meet a very good friend of mine, Lady Gerhild North-Wind, Thane of Markarth.”

“A lady?” Faric’s eyes were wide as he looked her up and down again, “And a Thane. You don’t look like a Thane.”

“Well,” Gerhild actually managed to look embarrassed for once, “For the record, regarding how I became a Thane, I just happened to be in the right place at the right time for most of it. Then I did a small favor for Jarl Igmund—with Vorstag’s help,” she paused to flash him a bright smile, sending his heart racing out of control. “And the jarl was so grateful he made me a Thane. I can fight if need be, but I do prefer wearing dresses to armor when I’m not fighting.”

The boy continued to stand there, his large eyes openly staring. The girl was sulking off to the side, her arms crossed over her chest and her lips drawn into a pout. Voada came up then, taking hold of the two, and dropped a knee respectfully. “Lady Gerhild, please excuse their rudeness. Children, you know. Bow, children,” she hissed under her breath.

Fasett barely bent her knee, her eyes shooting daggers at Gerhild. Faric, however, more than made up for his sister’s rudeness. He pulled out of his aunt’s grip and stepped up to Gerhild, took her free hand, and bowed over it. “Milady,” he breathed, “Should you ever need my services, know that you have but to ask.”

Gerhild smiled demurely down at him, “Thank you, Sir Faric. I’ll be sure to remember your offer.”

He blushed, flustered, and stuttered, “I’m not… no… not a… knight… Sir Faric… I…”

Voada managed to latch onto him again and pull him back to her side. “Well, it’s getting late, and from what I’ve heard it’s been a long day. By the time I get these two up to the Keep and settled in, it’ll be time for bed. Excuse us, Lady Gerhild. Oh, and for you,” she turned to Vorstag, reaching to her waist and pulling out a coin purse. She looked like she didn’t want to give it to him, and Vorstag quickly raised his free hand up in a stopping gesture.

“Mistress Voada, I think you and the children have been through enough lately. Let’s call this business finished, paid in full. No one bargained for a dragon…”

“Exactly,” she nodded, making up her mind and holding out the purse, “You went above and beyond your duty in protecting these two, even willing to die for them. I wouldn’t have expected that, not after what happened with that other mercenary. So take it; you’ve earned it.”

“I didn’t mean that,” he protested weakly. “You’re gonna need the coin for them…”

“They’ll be working for a living, same as me,” she gave the bag a toss, making him either catch it or let it fall to the floor. He chose to catch it. “Same as you. Thank you, Vorstag. Lady Gerhild, you have a fine man there. Don’t let him get away.”

Both were stunned by her comments. Amazingly Vorstag recovered first, letting go of her hand to drape his arm across her shoulders again. “Oh, I won’t get away.”

Gerhild felt the heaviness of his muscular limb, and the armor, and her knees threatened to give way again. She curled in close to Vorstag’s side, holding on with both arms to keep herself on her feet. “And even if he does, I know where to find him.”

He looked down at her sharply, knowing her well enough to have heard the slight edge of steel behind her voice. She was smiling at him, however, so whatever he had done this time, she wasn’t going to air it out in public. He supposed he should be thankful for that small favor, but they had been back together for all of five minutes. What sort of trouble could he have gotten into in that short time?

The mood in the inn remained celebratory after Voada and the children left, the guards demanding song after song from Ogmund, who couldn’t drink enough to keep up. As he started the first round of _‘The Dragonborn Comes,’_ Vorstag at last managed to extricate himself from their midst and bring Gerhild with him towards a quiet corner. They stood there for a time, her back to his front, her head leaning against his armored chest, his arm around her just beneath her bosom. He couldn’t believe his good fortune—he truly couldn’t—and knew he would pay for this somehow. Yet for this evening, these few perfect moments, he was damn well going to enjoy himself.

He closed his eyes and bent his head slightly, inhaling the scent of her freshly washed skin. Gods, how he’d missed that smell—her smell, an intoxicating mixture of lavender and dragon blood, of fresh water and sweat, of lady and warrior. It reminded him of fighting Forsworn, exploring tombs, and defeating dragons. All their adventures, all his memories of her, could be summed up perfectly in that unique scent. His cock gave an uncomfortable twitch, constrained as it was inside his modified codpiece, and he dearly wished he could readjust a few things.

“It’s getting late,” she murmured, her lips barely moving, her calm and clear voice floating lazily up to his ears.

“Aye,” he sighed, barely paying attention to her words. His cheek was pressed against her soft braids, his stubble snagging a few tiny wisps of hair.

“We need to talk,” she continued, “Privately. The sooner, the better.”

“Aye,” he agreed quicker than his brain processed her words. Half a heartbeat later, he realized what she had said, and sputtered quietly, “Oh, ah, you mean, in private, so, right now? Here? In my room?”

In a rare display of frustration, Gerhild thumped the back of her head softly against his armored chest. “Gods, no, Vorstag, think of how that would look. We do have some semblance of propriety to maintain, even if we are supposed to be lovers.”

“Lovers…?” the words barely had enough breath to slip past his lips.

She sighed, turning to face him, placing her hands on his breastplate. “Aye, that’s what everyone thinks, isn’t it? That you had Ogmund teach you to write, so you could send me love letters?”

“How did you…?” he couldn’t even finish his question. Gerhild had been in Markarth for less than a day, and she already knew his darkest secret. He could feel it, the heat stealing onto his cheeks, and the knife twisting his guts. Ah, gods, why had he ever prayed that she would return to Markarth?

She looked up at his face, watching the kicked-puppy expression spread across his features, curving his eyebrows and frowning his lips. Stuhn’s Shield, he was going to make her feel guilty for his mistakes. She steeled herself, trying to remain strong and not give in, but those soft brown eyes of his were so hurt. “Like I said,” she began, more gently than she intended, “We need to talk. But not tonight. I’m exhausted after fighting a dragon, and then racing to get here ahead of you and the children. Come to Vlindrel Hall tomorrow; we’ll talk then.”

“Gerhild,” he said a little too loudly, reaching out to grab her hand even as she turned away. Everyone in the room noticed them after his quiet protest, though they all tried to hide it. She stopped and smiled at him, the expression warm and sincere, though none of it reached her deep violet eyes.

“Tomorrow.” She reached up and pecked his lips lightly, the gesture so warm, so much in contrast to her cold soul, it shocked him long enough for her to slip from his hand. She was halfway across the room before he recovered, and by then he could only stand and watch her walk away.

“Another song!” an anonymous voice called.

She was at the door now, pausing to smile coyly over her shoulder at him before stepping out into the night.

“Here,” someone pressed a fresh mug of mead into his hand.

The door closed behind her, blocking her from view.

Gods, he had been a fool. He had let himself forget the reasons he left her in Windhelm, the coldness of her heart, her ability to act normal—even affectionate—when in truth she was dead inside. He didn’t dare let himself think of her sharing Ulfric’s bed; that thought alone would send him into a blind rage.

And he had stood there half the evening, holding onto her, nuzzling her like an unbearded boy, thinking himself so damn lucky. Aye, he was the biggest fool ever born in Skyrim, in Nirn! Yet he knew, tomorrow afternoon he would climb to the highest point in Markarth, to Vlindrel Hall, to his doom.

Damn her. And damn himself.


	6. Indigestion

“And then…” Vorstag could barely contain the chuckle, aided by a little too much wine, already knowing the punch line and anticipating her response, “And then the guard asked the lady to curb her dog, and she said, ‘Heel, Jackass!’ And the mage cast a healing spell on the guard!”

Gerhild groaned and rolled her eyes, “Oh, because he thought she said ‘heal,’ not ‘heel.’ I get it.” Her laughter rang, bright and joyous, throughout the Hall.

He shook his head even while his shoulders shook with mirth. Gerhild was the only woman he knew who could intellectually dissect a joke, while acting like she fully enjoyed it. At least, he was fairly sure she was acting. Sometimes he couldn’t tell when she was acting and when she was being herself, like the way she had acted affectionate towards him all the way through dinner this evening. Yet he maintained a smile, glad that she was making an effort. That had to mean something, right?

Rhiada wasn’t laughing, her face sober as she picked up the last of the dinner dishes. Argis, too, was frowning more than smiling, carrying the heavier platters as he helped his wife clean up. Vorstag tried to ignore their sobriety, but after two or three bottles of alto wine, even he had noticed their distinct lack of eye contact. When the last of the supper had been cleared away, and yet another bottle of wine opened for them, Argis hesitated at the door, his hand already on the latch, and asked, “Excuse me, my Thane, but will you require anything else tonight?”

Gerhild shook her head and waved vaguely in his direction, still laughing over the joke. Apparently she might have had a little too much wine herself. “No, Argis, thank you, that will be all.”

“Very good, Lady Gerhild. Master Vorstag. Good night.”

“Good night,” Vorstag acknowledged, a little bemused by the formal form of address. After the door closed, he looked to Gerhild for an explanation. “So… what’s wrong with Argis and Rhiada?”

“How do you mean?” Gerhild got herself to sober only slightly, but then sabotaged it by taking a sip of wine. She had noticed the couple's odd behavior from the start, but hadn’t wanted to mention it to Vorstag—not until they were alone, which they were now, but he had brought it up, so she would find out first what he had noticed before she gave him the lecture she had been rehearsing all day… Mentally she shook her head, trying to clear the fuzziness the wine had left behind, and physically set her glass firmly on the table.

“Well, for one thing,” he scrunched his brows, trying to find the words to explain the uneasy feeling making him itch between his shoulder blades, “They were both kinda odd tonight, don’t you think, acting more like servants than our friends, and calling me ‘Master’ and you ‘Lady.’ They didn’t even join us for supper. It was… cold. Is something wrong? I know I was surprised to hear they had gotten married; is there something going on with…”

“Argis suspects.”

Those two words fell from her lips like a death knell; the silence that followed was deafening. He swallowed, struggling to follow the rapid shift in conversation, wondering what Argis could suspect and fearing he already knew the answer. Yet a slightly under-enunciated, “Huh?” was the most intelligent response he could muster.

“Argis.” She leaned forward a little, keeping her voice low so it wouldn’t carry through the door where the housecarl and steward were still puttering around. “He talked with me privately as soon as I arrived yesterday, regarding his concerns over you. He and Rhiada—and others—have noticed some differences in your behavior. And it’s not just your learning to write; though Ogmund’s quite proud of you, ya know.” Wait, she wasn’t supposed to mention that. Damn, that wine was strong. She should have stopped after one glass, but it had tasted so good, fruity without being too tart. “No, it’s other things, little things, like marking an Imperial encampment on a map, or taking jobs that are out of character for you. He was even concerned about the letters you’d supposedly been writing to me, as I hadn’t been answering them, and thought you might not be writing to me after all. So I made up a story that you lost a bet over a fight, and I had to cover your debt, and you weren’t so much writing letters as sending me payments. At least, at first. Later the letters became more personal. I think he believes me, for now anyway, but you need to be more careful…”

He leaned forward as well, preparing to defend himself, “Now, wait a minute, I’ve been careful…”

“Not careful enough, obviously,” she cut him off, allowing herself to feel irritation over his clumsiness, hoping the steam would boil off some of the alcohol. “I told you, back in Windhelm, you can’t dissemble worth a damn.”

“But I’m not pretending to be someone else.”

“And what you’re doing is treason. You’re a citizen of Markarth, not a Stormcloak. You don’t even believe in Ulfric…”

“I don’t have to. I love Markarth! The city! The people…!”

She all but lunged across the table, wrapping her fingers over his mouth while the other held the back of his skull, silencing him through the suddenness of her actions. They both froze, wide brown eyes staring into wide deep blue. Gerhild was surprised over her brazen move, and Vorstag was adamantly keeping eye contact despite the tempting shadow of a cleavage now angled perfectly for viewing. Neither one dared to do more than breathe, both of them listening intently for any noise coming from the main part of Vlindrel Hall.

Gerhild was the first to break the silence, but her words were a Shout. He saw her lean back slightly and square her shoulders as she took in a deep breath, and quickly recognized the gesture. He wondered if she was really going to Shout him across the room, while trying to hold his mouth shut. Maybe she had learned a new Shout, something that would stop his tongue or turn him into a chicken. Yet he trusted her, staring in fascination as her lips parted and she breathed, _“Laas Yah Nir…”_

It wasn’t so much a Shout as a whisper, one he barely heard even though they were only inches apart. He stared in amazement as her eyes seemed to glow a light blue for a moment, almost like a Draugr’s eyes, while she turned her head and looked around them. Straining out of the corner of his eye, he couldn’t find anything to look at, and wondered what she was doing when her gaze settled on the wall next to the door. It almost seemed like she could look through the wall and see what Rhiada and Argis were doing…

“They didn’t hear you,” she sighed, “They’re still getting ready for bed.” She blinked and let out a sigh, bringing her eyes back to lock with his. She could feel his breath passing through his nose, warm and strong, brushing over the skin at the side of her hand, and she realized she was still holding his mouth shut. Slowly she pulled her hand away, but for some reason her other hand remained burrowed into his hair. This close to him, she could smell the fresh scent of his juniper soap, and knew he had bathed as well as put on a fresh shirt before dinner tonight. Even his hair in her fingers, usually lanky and grimy due to lack of washing, felt soft and smooth as she twisted it around her fingers.

“We’ve been over this before,” he said, remembering to keep his voice low. Apparently he wasn’t finished with their argument. “You know why I have to do this. Why this is important to me.”

She tried hard to focus on his eyes, his face, tried to remember why she was upset with him. “Aye, but you’re risking your life. Why do that, if you don’t believe in Ulfric?”

“I’m not risking my life for him,” he attempted to explain, their faces so close together he could smell the wine on her breath. “I’m risking my life for Markarth. And no one’s forcing me to do this; it’s my choice.”

She was quiet for a moment, trying to understand, her eyes flicking back and forth between his, her brow filled with little furrows. “Choice. I suppose… that’s the part I don’t understand. I do things—I risk my life—because I have to, because I’m Dragonborn, I’m driven by my nature and my past and my fate. There’s no choice for me. I guess… I don’t understand why, since you been given the option, why you would choose to take the risk.”

“Because,” he nearly sighed, lifting his hands to cup her face, “Finding a way to hand the Reach over to Ulfric without bloodshed, or even if it’s with less bloodshed, is worth it. My life, for the lives of twenty… fifty… five hundred lives. To me, in my opinion, that is worth the risk.” He studied the face before him, the delicate golden eyebrows curving above deep violet eyes, the smooth skin stretched over her cheekbones and perfectly marred by a pair of dimples, the bow-shaped lips so dark a red as to rival snowberries. Even after trying to put her out of his mind, after staying away from her for over a year, he could admit it to himself—he was as hopelessly in love with her as he had been before they parted ways.

And she was just as unable to understand him as ever. Her brow remained furrowed, her gaze turning inward as she wrapped her thoughts around his words. He allowed her some time to ponder the idea, well familiar with her habitual need for deep thought. When at last he felt she had pondered long enough, he pulled his hands away and gave a small cough to gain her attention. “It’s getting late. I should go, I suppose.”

Gerhild took hardly a moment to focus before she answered him, her hand slowly slipping from his hair, “You can’t, not yet. Ogmund’s not expecting you back at the inn until later, if at all. And Argis and Rhiada would certainly notice if you left now; they’re suspicious of you enough already, no use adding fuel to the fire.”

“Now I don’t understand. Why should everyone think I’d be spending so much time here…?”

She barely gave him time to finish his question. “We’re lovers, remember? And we’ve been apart for over a year. Everyone fully expects us to spend all night talking and…” her voice trailed away, and she blamed the blush heating her cheeks on the wine, “Ya know.”

It took a moment, but he finally figured out what she wasn’t saying. “Oh!” he actually sounded surprised. Involuntarily he looked beyond her to the master bedchamber, and an answering redness stole across his cheeks. Aye, it was strong wine. Maybe he should re-cork that last bottle and save it for another night. “Oh, right, becaush I’ve been writing reportsh to Ulfric thish pasht year, but I couldn’t let anyone find that out, sho I let them think I wash writing to you and trying to impresh you and…” he broke off, cursing himself for rambling, hating the lisp stealing into his voice. He fought for control, and when he spoke again every syllable was carefully enunciated. “Look, Gerhild, I know I shouldn’t have done it, and you have every right to be sore about it…”

“I’m not sore,” she reached out to lay a hand gently across his wrist, “But I was surprised, and I almost blew your cover. You could have at least given me a fair warning of what to expect.” What had happened to the rest of the rehearsed lecture she was going to give him? He hadn’t even apologized, not really, and her ire had melted like summer snow. She should have stayed away from the wine; it weakened her fortitude too much.

He shrugged, staring at her pale lithe fingers curved around his thick wrist. “I guess I never thought you’d come back here, not after… ya know.” Damn it, he had nearly brought up Ulfric again, the one thing he had promised himself he wouldn’t do—not until he knew why she was here in Markarth. The atmosphere in the room, light and open a moment before, was suddenly heavy and ominous, like the air before a storm.

“I…” she paused to lick her lips, resisting the impulse to pull her hand away, as that would seem rude; at least that’s what she told herself. “Truly I didn’t know if I should come back. But…”

He watched her lower lip worm its way between her teeth, and an impulse to kiss it free nearly overwhelmed him. How could he be so frustrated with her and be in such need of her at the same time? Fearing that something of his emotions must be creeping onto his features, and knowing her sharp eyes would easily discern his thoughts, he quickly looked back down at the table. He saw that his other hand had come up to lay across hers as if it had a mind of its own, the callous pads of his fingers stroking the back of her hand.

Aye, this was awkward.

“That was a new Shout,” he said quietly and carefully.

She seemed grateful for the change in conversation, instantly elaborating. “Laas Yah Nir? Aye, it’s a Shout that can detect life, though quietly, unlike a spell. It was a bitch to learn, but I’ve found it can be very useful for finding enemies who may be laying in wait, even through walls or closed doors, whether they’re moving or still. I can use it to detect all sorts of things, Man or Mer, Draugrs, spiders, mammoths, Dwarven Automatons… It’ll show me everything but a dragon.”

“You don’t really need a Shout to detect a dragon, do you? It’s not like they can hide in a coffin or behind a closed door.”

He said it with such a straight face, but the absurdity of it made the corner of her mouth twitch. His thin lips twitched, too, and she gave him a small laugh. The tension broken, she shook her head and playfully punched his arm.

“Stuhn’s Shield, but you are a frustrating man.”

“I do my best,” he smiled charmingly at her, his white teeth flashing in the subdued light.

“Why did you leave me?”

Gods, why had she said that!? It must have been the wine, loosening her tongue and her control. But once the words were out, there was no taking them back, so she decided to forge ahead. He had simply sat there, stunned by her question, so she had time to quickly formulate how to put her confusion into words.

“I need to understand; whether I want to face it or not, whether it hurts me or not, I need to know. What happened? One moment, everything is fine, we’re adventuring, fighting, amassing fame and fortune. Then one day you wake up with a killer hangover and decide you’re going to head back to Markarth?” She shook her head, leaning away from him ever so slightly, but leaving her hand between his. “It doesn’t make sense. Not to me. Please, tell me, why?”

“I don’t know how to explain it,” he admitted, unwilling to mention how he had seen her that night, her hair disheveled and her robe askew, tiptoeing from Ulfric’s bedchamber to her own. Even as drunk as he’d been, he could remember the delectable vision of her in perfect clarity. And the pain in his heart. All the time and effort he’d put into helping her feel comfortable with the thought of intimacy, all the groundwork, all the hope, only to have her go to another man when she was finally ready to love. He swallowed thickly, but he knew he couldn’t tell her the truth.

“You… seemed comfortable in Windhelm. Like you’d found a place where you belonged. A home. But my home was here, in Markarth. And though I love… traveling with you,” he almost said he loved her, but he couldn’t do that, not if she loved another man. Admitting his love now would seem trite in the face of Ulfric’s love, or possibly confuse her more. He had to give her another reason, and hope she believed it. “I guess I just missed my own home. It was nothing personal, you understand, but you didn’t seem to need me anymore. So I came home.” There, neat and tidy, and plausible, and he didn’t even mention Ulfric.

There it was again, that fluttering feeling in her chest. For half a moment she pondered how indigestion could linger for so long, even after several good meals and a couple of healing spells. But there was a far more important matter to address. Looking across the table at his resigned and almost defeated expression, she felt emboldened enough to open up and tell him the truth. “I do need you, Vorstag,” she said quietly. “No one else understands me as well as you do. You… accept that sometimes I have to search an urn, or pick a lock, even if it’s just to see what might be there. You don’t try to change that about me. And you know I’m Dragonborn, but you’re not intimidated or put off by it, or try to give me extra honors and flatter me. After you found out, you treated me like you always had; you’re the only man I know who’s done that. And in battles we fight well together, almost without having to call out to each other to coordinate our strategies. You… you keep me focused, put me back on track when I get distracted, and you watch my back when I need to think. I know I can trust you. I do trust you, Vorstag. With my life.”

He swallowed. Merciful Mara, was she saying what he thought she was saying? Still, those three little words he yearned to hear hadn’t left her lips yet. Unable to stop himself from trying to encourage her to say it, he asked, “No other reasons?”

“Indigestion.”

The singular word was baffling to him, not at all what he had been praying for. “What?”

“Ya know, an upset feeling, tight and flittering, just here,” she set the tips of her fingers against her chest, right over the place where her Amulet of Stendarr lay nestled at the top of her cleavage. “Indigestion. You know I can’t cook; you’ve always been better at cooking. And I’m still feeling the leftover mudcrab I had for breakfast yesterday. I’ve had several good meals since then, and tried healing myself at least four times, but it’s still there, annoying me. I need you traveling with me, if for no other reason than to prevent me giving myself food poisoning.”

Vorstag was poleaxed, to have his prayer answered without being answered. Yet he knew; it wasn’t indigestion she was describing. She was feeling something, by some miracle she had felt emotion, there within that heart of frost, that icy fortress he had spent months battering against, that he had broken his own heart trying to break into…

She… felt… love.

“How long have you been feeling this indigestion?” he asked cautiously, warning himself that what she was feeling might be directed towards Ulfric, that she might be missing her jarl. If she’d been feeling this way since she left Windhelm, then she was longing for Ulfric.  If she'd been feeling this way since…

“Off and on since I got back to Markarth yesterday.”

Beautiful words. Those beautiful, gorgeous, stunning words.

She saw the strange look on his features, like he knew a secret she didn’t know, but kept talking. “Or maybe it was just after the dragon. I don’t really remember, just that the mudcrab seemed alright, so I finished it for breakfast. Then later that morning, there was the fight, and then racing to get here ahead of you and the children…”

“Aye, that’s probably it,” he nobly allowed, that secretive smile still marking his thin lips. “The mudcrab was a little off, and all the exertion yesterday made it worse.” He paused, looking into her eyes, feeling an answering flitter of ‘indigestion’ in his own chest. Ah, gods, she loved him. He was sure of it! Yet tragically she still wasn’t ready to acknowledge to herself that she could feel love. He wondered briefly if some Daedric Prince was playing with their fates, toying with them, making them love each other yet remain impotent to act upon that love. But then, surely Mara would step in and overrule that Daedric Prince. Hadn’t Mara already answered his prayer and brought Gerhild to Markarth? Hadn’t Gerhild already started to feel?

And there was his answer, his hope, his salvation. Gerhild had made progress—though she still maintained her wall of ice, she had begun to feel something, and it was towards him! Not Ulfric! He knew, though, he couldn’t force her to accept this ‘indigestion’ was truly emotion; she was still too damaged, too private, too insecure to face that. She needed to tell him what had happened before she could acknowledge any sort of feelings for him. Yet now he could wait, now he would have patience and allow her the time she needed to finally realize on her own that she loved him. He could do this now, because he already knew the truth. And with each moment, of each day, for however long it took, he would show her with his actions that he loved her, too, so when that day finally came, nothing would remain to stand between them.

He would never again leave her side.

“Well, then, I suppose I’ll have to start traveling with you again, just to keep you from cooking yourself to death.” He watched her shoulders relax ever so slightly, and continued, “Besides, I’ve done all I can here in the Reach. I’ve discovered something that could be used as leverage to put the Silver-Blood family in power, when the time comes. I’ll tell you about it later, but let’s just say a certain someone in Understone Keep has an engraved Amulet of Talos. I’ve reported this to Ulfric already, along with the location of the Imperial encampment north of here. But a couple of weeks ago I heard a rumor that Imperial troops were being sent to reinforce Fort Sunguard. That’s another reason I took the job escorting Faric and Fasett here; it gave me the chance to swing a little out of the way and observe the troops heading towards the fort. I suppose I could always give Ulfric this last bit of news face to face when we return to Windhelm.”

A cold sort of dread crept down her spine when he mentioned wanting to meet with Ulfric. “If we go to Windhelm,” she muttered, her bottom lip worming between her teeth again.

His own ‘indigestion’ gave another flop. On top of all the other stunning developments this evening, could she be unwilling to go to Windhelm? By the Nine, he couldn’t be that blessed. “I thought you lived there?”

“No,” she answered quickly, perhaps too quickly, but she ignored her slip thinking that would encourage him to ignore it. “No, I’ve moved to Whiterun. It’s more neutral, in location and politics, and Lady Gerhild North-Wind is not supposed to be a Stormcloak. Nor is the Dragonborn.”

“Oh,” his fingers had returned to stroking the back of her hand, “I thought you liked it there. In Windhelm. I figured, ya know, you felt comfortable there, with people who knew you, like Ralof who was with you in Helgen, and Ulfric who knows about Shouting and that stuff.” Shit, but that was lame, even to his own ears. He sounded like an unbearded youth trying to find out if the girl he was sweet on liked him or another boy. Of course, that was essentially what he was trying to find out, but he had meant to go about it in a much more suave manner.

He watched as Gerhild almost flinched this time when he mentioned Ulfric. He sat dumbfounded as she pulled her hand out of his clasp. She didn’t look at him, didn’t speak, but turned away trancelike and stood. Her velvet skirts rustled like autumn leaves as she walked away, then walked back, then veered off to the side before the table could block her path. She was pacing, her eyes staring at the stones beneath her feet, her fingers twisting into knots in front of her stomach, her brow furrowed and beaded with sweat. Aye, he had fucked up. Already. And only two minutes after he had agreed to once more travel with her. He’d have to work quickly if he was going to keep from losing too much ground. “Gerhild, I’m sorry, did I say something…”

“I can’t go back there,” she admitted softly. The fact that she was willing to talk with him gave him little reassurance, as it seemed she hadn’t heard him speak. She also appeared unable to see him, not noticing him standing up slowly and carefully, acting like he was afraid of startling a wild animal. Though she continued to pace, she also continued to try to explain, her words hesitant and forced, constrained and free-flowing. “I can’t. It’s too hard. Every time I’m there, and I see him, and I know he’ll try to help me, he’ll always try to help me, but I’m beyond help. I’ll never get over it. I’ll never be normal. And I know it. But he won’t give up on me and I can’t make him stop trying or he might give up on himself so I just avoid him and hope he’ll stop trying on his own but he has so much patience towards me that I feel ashamed at my lack of progress but I don’t want to try any more because each time I fail it leaves me feeling bitter so it’s just better to stay away then I don’t have to see him I don’t have to fail him I don’t have to admit that I can never love…”

He had heard the incessant babbling, seen her glassy eyes, followed her agitated stomping, and he knew what was coming. Gerhild in the grips of hysteria was something he did not wish to see, especially considering her powers as the Dragonborn. So he had stalked her, headed her off and stopped her. His arms were now around her, one hand on the back of her head, holding her still against his chest, ending her torrential rambling within the fabric of his tunic.

It wasn’t over yet. She was too strong to be so easily stopped, and the suddenness of his embrace was too akin to an attack. It began with a whimper and a tug, but quickly escalated into panting and writhing. She began thrashing against him, twisting to break his hold, to free her face. Fearing the noise would alert the others, he shoved her against the wall and tried to pin her with his body while he struggled to open the door to her bedchamber. The further they were from Argis and Rhiada, the less likely they would be to hear her, even if she happened to Shout, and he might be able to stifle the Thu’um in the pillows or mattress of the bed. It was the only option he could think of to use until she came back to her senses. Feeling her attempts to break free growing stronger, he finally managed to wrench the door open. He shoved her into her room, kicking the door closed and falling on top of her before she could scramble off the bed.

Gerhild felt the heavy body land on top of her, catching hold of her limbs, pinning her. In a fevered fantasy, she believed she was being held prisoner again, restrained by Thalmor as they tortured and raped her, or those men in Cidhna Mine who used her body to slake their hindered lust. Her chest squeezed tight, echoing that long-accustomed tightness down between her legs, and tears blinded her vision, blocking out any sensory input that might have revealed her true situation. Her panic escalated exponentially, chasing away all coherent thought or reason. All she knew, was that there was a man holding her, forcing himself on her, and though he was too powerful for her physically, there was one area where she knew she was the one more powerful. She opened her mouth, drew back her shoulders, and prepared to Shout. Just as she exhaled he moved to block it, his open mouth covering hers and swallowing her Thu’um. It was no where near its full strength, unable to be Voiced, but he must have felt something of it, bursting into his mouth and down his throat to rattle deep within his chest. She saw his soft brown eyes widen, one above a tattooed cheek, the other marked by a small scar just beneath the eyebrow, and she at last recognized who was holding her.

Vorstag had to move away. His breath was choking him, having been packed and stuffed deep down into his lungs before the force of her Thu’um. He tried to cough, feeling like he had been kicked in the balls, but no air would expel. Pain did squeeze his chest, however, and he decided that coughing again would hurt more than the thickly packed air trying to burst his lungs and escape into his body. He couldn’t hold onto Gerhild any longer, he physically could not do it, all his energy and strength focused on keeping his own body and soul together. Gods, but that fucking hurt!

Gerhild had seen the face above her, and known it was someone she could trust, someone who wouldn’t hurt her, despite what her panicked mind was screaming. She then had watched him slowly fall away, his face frozen in pain, turning redder by the second. Yet unreasonable fear continued to hold her within its vice-like grip. It took several long moments before she dared to move, before she realized she could move and was no longer being restrained. She gave an experimental twitch, but all restrictions on her body had gone away. Feeling her courage return, she lifted her head and looked around for any sign of danger, for any sign of what had just happened. She saw she was safe in her bedchamber in Vlindrel Hall and not a Thalmor dungeon, and felt better until her vision expanded a little further. The sight that met her watery eyes rocked her to her very core.

“Fuck!” The strong curse fell softly onto the bed. She scrambled onto all fours, her hysteria forgotten, her fear and pain and panic vanquished in the face of what she had done to her friend. Vorstag was now lying on his side, curled up tightly in the fetal position, his knees drawn up to his chest and held there by arms trembling with exertion. His face was dark red and beginning to turn purple. Tendons stood out like thick cords on his neck, his muscles locked tight, his body refusing to even try to breathe. His eyes were closed in agony, his blue lips parted to show white teeth clenched to seal his mouth.

“…Vorstag…?”

If he heard her, he gave no sign, the only activity being the trembling of his muscles or the darkening of the skin on his face.

“Vorstag?”

She called a little louder, ignoring the tears falling off her cheeks. She gripped his shoulders and attempted to shake him lose from the death grip he had himself in, but he wouldn’t or couldn’t loosen his muscles.

“Vorstag!”

She all but screamed his name, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She thought she might need to get Argis to help her, if she couldn’t do something quick. Beloved Kyne, what kind of damage would it do to a man, Shouting down his throat like that? And which Thu’um had she used? She couldn’t remember, the past few minutes a fugue sort of blur in her memories.

Her mind flared into life suddenly, as she stared at her hand hovering over his shoulder. She didn’t need Argis or anyone else’s help; she knew Restoration Magic. Not taking the time to curse her stupidity—she promised herself to do that later—she focused on the spell, her lips forming the words without breath, her entire attention on creating the golden ribbons of magic, falling like dust motes between her hand and his body. She watched the tendrils wrap around his chest several times before timidly sinking in, like water across a saturated field. She knelt over him, holding herself very still, afraid to even breathe less it break her tenuous concentration and the spell.

It began with a tremor, slightly larger than what was already occurring through his arms. Half a shudder, half a convulsion, his limbs spasmed even tighter for a moment before falling away lifeless. She didn’t have time to fear the worst, as in the next moment he audibly gasped, his eyes flying open and his body rocking the bed with the force of that first breath, slamming the wooden frame against the stone wall. He paused for a several heartbeats before the next breath, the convulsions and noises lessening only slightly. Each consecutive breath followed a little quicker, the intensity fading as the rhythm approached normalcy. She didn’t notice she had also started breathing again, adding her own half-formed sobs as relief flooded through her.

At last the convulsions slowed to an end, and he managed to catch his breath. “…Gerhild…” Her name on his lips came like a prayer, full of amazement and wonder and mystery. His eyes were open and clear once more, the lines of agony all but erased from his features, only the memory of pain remaining. He reached up a hand to cup the side of her face, the pad of his thumb wiping off a waylaid tear.

Her hand gripped his, pressing his cool fingers against her heated cheek. “Stuhn's Shield,” she started, her choked words a little louder than she intended. She took the time to swallow and bring her voice back under control before she continued, her tone soft with remorse. “I thought I’d killed you…”

He wiped one more tear from the corner of a deep violet eye. “You only Shouted down my throat. It’ll take more than that to kill me,” he teased, unable to help himself. She didn’t find any of this funny, though he apparently did, with his face splitting into that charming smile, a lot less macabre now that his skin was no longer the color of a tomato. And the angrier she got, the more he smiled, which only made her feel angrier. In frustration she punched his arm, hard this time, driving into his muscles with her knuckles and enough strength to bruise.

She pushed away from him, scooting to sit on the edge of the bed, turning her back and wrapping her arms around herself. He quickly followed, reaching out for her even though that was kind of what had caused his near-death experience in the first place. Well, he never claimed to be a fast learner. He put his hand lightly on her shoulder, careful not to grip her too hard or seem threatening in any way, and asked, “Hey, what is it? I'm alright now; nothing's wrong.”

She couldn’t answer right away, shaking her head in a weak attempt to dissuade him. He wouldn’t have it, however, and not only shifted on the bed until he was behind her with a leg to either side, but wrapped his arms—loosely—around her torso. He held his chin above her shoulder, his breath warming her ear, and simply waited.

Gerhild was lost, battling her way through a quagmire of… guilt-remorse-anger-frustration-fear-longing-joy-sorrow… She didn’t know what the emotions were anymore, she had kept them locked inside for so long. She only knew, she had to push them back, she had to lock them away again, she had to deny them… “They’re too strong.”

Vorstag heard the words, mumbled as if she were thinking out loud. He didn’t try to answer her, fearful of breaking whatever spell had encouraged her to talk with him about it. Instead he held her a little firmer, and was rewarded when she sighed and leaned back against his chest, tucking her head beneath his chin.

“They overwhelm me, if I let myself feel them… anything but anger. Anger gives me strength, determination, focus, endurance. I can let myself feel anger. But the other emotions unmake me. It’s simply too much.”

He felt her shift around, his eyes closed to more enjoy the sensation of her body curling into his, her arms wrapping around his torso, her legs over one of his so she sat across his lap.

“I can’t do it, Vorstag, I can’t. I can’t let myself feel. I have to live this life—these lives—taking me down paths I never knew were there, going places I never wanted to go. I have to be Gerhild North-Wind, daughter of Maeganna and Ulgaarth, Thane, Dragnborn, spy, student, Ysmir, defender, rival, Nord, adventurer… It’s all too much for one girl. Too many obligations and responsibilities, pulling me in too many directions, and sometimes crossing my loyalties and challenging my morals. If I let myself feel, then I have to feel guilt over betraying a jarl who made me a Thane, or remorse over the death of Cosnach, or regret because I don’t have the time to study with the Greybeards, or disappointment when I can’t stand Ulfric’s touch…”

She stopped suddenly, and he could imagine her lower lip being squished between her teeth, even though her face was still tucked beneath his chin. He realized now why she did that, why she bit her lip—it was her way of stopping the torrent, of heading off the babbling before it got out of control and turned into hysteria, of controlling emotions that were too strong for her.

“It’s alright,” he heard himself say. “You don’t have to say anymore, not if you don’t want to.” But, gods, he wanted to know everything. One part of him, a small and petty part, rejoiced that Ulfric hadn’t gotten as far with her as he once thought. She had just confessed she couldn’t stand Ulfric’s touch. He pushed the thought from his mind, however, and focused on her. He rocked her in his arms, gently, only ever so slightly, and simply allowed her a safe haven for however long she wished it.

“It’s a curse,” she continued, her voice calm and cool, signaling that she was once more in command of her self. Yet, amazingly, she continued to share with him. “No sane person would want this life—these lives—this existence of mine! I’ve done more things in this past year alone than most people will ever do in their entire lifetimes. I’ve traveled to other countries. I’ve read books of forbidden knowledge. I’ve stopped assassinations. I’ve killed. And I’ve consumed the souls of dragons. I think that’s the worst part, the part that separates me the most from normal people. No sane person would want to consume a dragon’s soul, not if they understood the cost. Not if they understood the cost.

“The souls are still alive, inside me,” her words fell soft and harsh from her lips, “Though not living, like they’re sleeping but just on the verge of waking. They’re not dead, not able to continue on to whatever afterlife awaits a dragon. But they’re no longer able to affect anything or anyone around them. All they can do is… slither inside my soul like restless snakes, sometimes moving a little more purposefully when they sense another dragon is near, only to settle afterwards into an endless slow-motion tumble down a long hillside.”

He heard the beginnings of the babbling again and tried to head her off. “Gerhild…”

“No one understands. I thought Ulfric did, once, but he can’t truly feel what I feel, because he can’t feed on the souls of dragons. He can’t understand the lure, the seduction, of gaining another soul. Because I grow stronger with each one. I feel it. They feel it too, the dragons. Maybe that’s why stronger and stronger dragons are finding me, coming up against me, while the weaker ones run from my Thu’um. Every soul grows my power. And I hunger.

“That’s what’s wrong. With me. I am becoming a monster, something more vicious and bestial than any dragon. I have to; what could consume a dragon but that which is stronger? And I’ll keep doing it, because I’m driven, because I must, because it is my fate to do these things, to be Dragonborn, to defeat Alduin lest he destroys the world.” She lifted cold, dead violet eyes up to him, clear of the earlier tears, clear of emotion. “Can you understand?”

She expected to see revulsion on his features, to see him quickly hide it when he noticed her looking, and to protest that of course he understood, that he still accepted her as his friend, that he wasn’t repulsed by the change in her nature.

Vorstag’s warm brown eyes were glazed, his features full of amazement, worry, and something that spoke of a long-suffering emptiness. He focused his eyes to see her looking at him, but he didn't try to hide what he was feeling. He opened his mouth to speak, but his words were unexpected. “I don’t understand. How could I? There’s nothing I’ve gone through that could compare to what you have to face, what you have to live with every day.” Lightly he touched the place over her heart, over her Amulet of Stendarr, as if he could feel the dragon souls moving within her, or the ‘indigestion’ of her heart. “The fact that you’re able to function at all is an attestation to how strong you are. But Gerhild,” he paused to cup her chin with his hand, keeping her face tilted up towards his, “You’re my friend. I know some of the things you do, I may not agree with them, but I won’t think any less of you for doing them. You are who you are, you do what you have to. It isn’t fair, it isn’t right. It’s life. You just ended up with a shittier fate than the rest of us.”

She couldn’t speak at first, unable or unwilling to accept his acceptance. After all, there was no reason he should stay, no reason he shouldn’t get up and race from the room, from her home, screaming about the monstrosities she just confessed to him. But he remained, and with each passing heartbeat, she realized he was going to remain, regardless of who she was and what she had done.

Or, perhaps, in some strange and unfathomable way, because of it.

"I think," she paused to swallow, and her eyes fell to his lips. They were no longer a cold, dead blue, but a warm and living red. Unbidden the memory came to her from yesterday, of their kiss in the tavern, of those same lips warm and inviting, pressed against her own. Those lips had felt willing, open, accepting, just like the man who owned them. She had taken Kodlak's advice to come here and see Vorstag; perhaps there was a reason he had given her such advice. Trusting Kodlak, trusting Vorstag, she decided to be completely honest. "I think you should know. I think I want to tell you. About me. All about me. You promised once you wouldn't infer my past, that you would wait for me to share it with you. Well, I'm ready to share it with you, everything I've been holding back, keeping inside, hidden from others. I want you to know my secrets, and if you still want to travel with me after that…"

“After what you’ve told me so far, and I haven’t balked, do you really think I could ever abandon you?” She watched a warm and encouraging smile grace his lips, and felt bold enough to look back up.

Her deep violet eyes searched his soft brown orbs for any sign of hesitation or fear or falsehood. But he was Vorstag. Honest. Dependable. Easy-going.

“You remember I once told you that I grew up in Cyrodiil, that I didn’t come to Skyrim until after my father died? Well, while coming down the pass through the mountains, I was captured by Thalmor. They… tortured me, tried to make me confess to being a Stormcloak spy…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, I didn’t go over (yet again) all that Gerhild has been through. I just couldn’t. If you’ve read ‘Heart of Frost,’ then you know. If you haven’t, and you want her whole sordid story without reading all of HoF (shame on you; you're gonna make me cry), I think Chapters 26-27 sum it up well enough.


	7. Promises

Argis padded on bare feet back to Rhiada’s bedchamber. He hadn’t wanted to stay there with her, but he knew he couldn’t have stayed in his room, right across the private dining room from the master bedroom, not tonight. And the only other room was the alchemy lab, which was full of the oddest smells due to his Thane concocting some potion or another. No, it was either sleep with Rhiada—on a small cot he had set up in Rhiada’s room, not her bed, of course!—or sleep on the floor in the main hall. By the Nine, life was so much simpler before Lady Gerhild returned home. He set his jaw when he actually found himself wishing that his Thane would leave Markarth and never return. It was unseemly for a housecarl, and he berated himself thoroughly for it. But after what he had just heard, he was glad he had moved out of his room, at least for this night.

He knocked softly, waiting for Rhiada to call out permission before opening the door. Immediately he blushed a deep red, or rather a deeper red, upon seeing that she was nursing Maniel. “Is everything alright?” she asked, preoccupied with settling her son down for the night. When Argis didn’t answer right away, she raised concerned eyes up to him. “Lady Gerhild, is she…”

“She’s fine,” he said quickly, ducking his head and dragging his eyes away from her exposed torso. Rhiada seemed to show an alarming lack of concern on certain matters, especially when it came to their relationship. She knew they weren’t really married, that he would never see her in that light, but she continually showed a lack of propriety. He was a man who liked his privacy. And he gave her her privacy. He was only in this room because…

Because his Thane and her lover were having sex. Passionate sex.

“What was the noise?”

Right, the noise that alarmed them. He and Rhiada had heard a piece of furniture being kicked over, and he was the one who had to make sure that Vorstag wasn’t killing Gerhild or something equally sinister. He still didn’t trust the change in Vorstag, even though they had once been close, even though Gerhild had explained all of Vorstag's odd behaviors. There remained something different about the sellsword, and that continued to leave him unsettled. He pushed the dire foreshadows aside and answered Rhiada's question, “A chair got knocked over. I set it back.”

“And the door slam? The voices?”

Gods, what he had heard. After setting the chair back on its legs, he had heard the sounds coming through the bedchamber door… Gerhild calling out Vorstag’s name louder and louder… Vorstag gasping and repeatedly slamming the bed into the wall with the force of his… “They’re fine, Rhiada. Let it be.”

“But… what were they doing…” She stopped suddenly, seeing the tense set of his shoulders, the hard line of his pressed lips, the red spreading from his tattooed cheek to his neck. “…oh…”

“Aye,” he agreed, a hard and sarcastic edge to his voice as he finished getting ready for bed. Divine Dibella, he wished he could unhear what had happened in Gerhild’s chambers. “Oh.”

He laid down, facing the wall, not wishing to be rude but only wishing to stop the conversation. Damn it, but he felt uncomfortable, filthy, disgusting, and more words he couldn’t think of at the moment. He’d been at his Thane’s bedchamber door, listening to her being ardently bedded by her lover. He should never have gone in there; he should never have stayed so long listening to the noises. But he had been concerned, because he was leaving his Thane alone with Vorstag, who had been acting so strangely as of late…

And that’s what irked him the most. He knew Vorstag from when they were younger. He’d… he’d opened up with him about liking men and not women—one of the few times he’d ever done so—because he thought Vorstag might feel the same way. And the month they’d spent in Riften had been one of the best times of his life, despite Vorstag turning out to be straight. To meet him again after all these years, and see how much he’d changed, going from kind-hearted adventurer-for-hire to cold-blooded mercenary!

Sure, Vorstag had just come back from escorting two orphaned children across the Reach, and according to one story, had even tried to waive his usual fee. But there were other jobs that just didn’t fit the Vorstag he had known, whether or not he owed Gerhild a substantial amount of money. And there were too many little things, things Argis couldn’t put into words, things that showed there was a change in the man. He wished he could tell if the change was for the better or the worse.

Behind him he heard Rhiada singing softly to her son, rocking him to sleep. His thoughts drifted to his own mother, how kind and gentle she had been, how hard she’d cried when his father had sliced his face and kicked him out of the house. He’d never seen her again; she had died while he had been serving in the Legion, and no one thought to write and tell him. By the time he returned to Markarth a couple years ago, she had been buried for years.

“Rhiada…” his normally gruff voice was a low growl in the dim room.

“Yes,” she sighed from the other side of the room. He didn’t speak again, not knowing why he had spoken in the first place. He did hear her bed creak and her soft footfalls cross the room. He felt her hand touch his shoulder and his bed shift as she sat down. He heard her quiet question spoken into the soft shadows. “He was one of your lovers?”

She knew about his tastes; he had been honest with her when he proposed marriage. And she had promised not to reveal his secret, for which he was grateful. He had hoped that would mean she would never bring up the subject, because as matters stood, he was going to have to spend the rest of his life celibate just to keep up appearances for her sake and Maniel’s sake. Not that he had had a whole lot of lovers, or had anyone current, or had been actively seeking anyone…

Her fingers gripped a little tighter at his shoulder, not to hurt, but to reassure. His voice was equally gentle. “No.”

She didn’t pull away. She didn’t let her hand drop. She didn’t speak. He took a deep breath and sat up, surreptitiously wiping a tear from his eye as he did so. The blanket sown from pelts puddled around his waist, and Rhiada allowed herself a good look at his physique, knowing he wouldn’t mind—at least he wouldn’t notice. The man was gorgeous, and she’d been widowed for more than a year. If only…

“No, I… I had hoped… once when we were younger… I thought he might… but he doesn’t like it.”

“You mean,” she paused to swallow, “He’s tried it? With you?”

Argis shifted on his bed, making more room for her, “No. I mean, he was… Ah, gods, this is complicated. I probably shouldn’t tell you, but he probably wouldn’t mind, knowing you wouldn’t repeat this.” He leaned back against the wall, and she settled in beside him, taking his hand, encouraging him without words to say whatever he wanted to say without judgment.

“When Vorstag was younger, he had a best friend, Hamming. They did everything together, and I know I wasn't the only one who thought they might be a little too close, ya know. And he never seemed to like girls, at least he never talked with them or tried to seduce them. He was always a little shy, blushed a lot, and lisped, those sorts of things. Anyway, when he was fifteen, he and Hamming got arrested for fighting in public. They were drunk, just a couple of kids really, but things sorta got out of hand. I think some property was destroyed, and a guard knocked out or something. Anyway, the Jarl overreacted and sentenced them to serve a year in Cidhna Mine. I don’t have to tell you what happens in there to young men, where women are so scarce.”

She barely dared to breathe, imaging what the two boys had been put through.

“Hamming died a few months into their sentence. I never did learn how or why. But when Vorstag was released, he was changed, hurting, anxious or something. He wanted to leave Markarth, in a hurry, and didn’t much care how. I got him a job with me, protecting a merchant-woman as she traveled to Riften. When we got there, I asked him if he would share a room with me at the local inn for a while—a room with one bed in it. I thought, well, he and Hamming had been so close, I thought he might be like me, ya know. And after what my father did to me, I was scared to admit what I am to anyone, unless I was fairly sure he would be the same.

“Turns out, I was wrong, though at least it wasn’t because of what happened in the mine. Vorstag just wasn’t interested in that, but he never held it against me, either. We stayed friends, just friends, and that was alright, too. We hung out in Riften for a month, drinking, brawling, gambling, the guards there didn’t give a fuck what you did as long as you didn’t cause them too much trouble. Then one night, this Argonian offered us some skooma. I didn’t really want to try it, but Vorstag did. The rest of the night is a blur, but the next morning we woke up with these stupid matching tattoos.”

“So that’s how you got them,” she hummed. “I thought that other story sounded suspicious.”

“Aye, well, now you know the truth. Vorstag and I got wasted out of our minds. It was a stupid, dumbass thing to do. After that night, I left for the Legion, and didn’t see Vorstag again until last year.”

He grew quiet, just sitting there and thinking, remembering. Rhiada continued to hold his hand, her fingers soft and warm. “How much has he changed?”

Argis rubbed at his scarred eye with his free hand. “Not that much, really. Nothing I can tell you. But he is different. I don’t know. Maybe I’m different. I mean, he still likes girls; that hasn’t changed. He still likes to help women and children and those who might not be able to help themselves. It’s just…”

Rhiada rested her cheek on his shoulder. “It’s because he’s Lady Gerhild’s lover. When she left Markarth, he took your place at her side, which couldn’t be helped, but they grew closer because they traveled together. Now he’s back, she’s back, and they’re together.” Rhiada lifted her face to look at his tattooed cheek. “She’s your Thane, but you can’t protect her from him. If anything happens, if he breaks her heart, there’s nothing you can do about it.”

He exhaled loudly through his nose, something close to a snort, “Aye, I suppose you’re right. That’s all I’m worried about.”

“Of course I’m right. Now, get some sleep,” she kissed his cheek in a sisterly fashion, “Or you’ll be even more grumpy and surly tomorrow.”

“I’m not surly,” he protested, pouting, as she got up from his bed to return to her own.

She rolled her eyes, “Of course not, Argis. Go to sleep. Good night.” With a quiet huff, she blew out the last candle.

“Good night,” he repeated into the soft darkness.

* * *

Fate was a tricky bastard.

Vorstag lay on his back in a spacious bed covered with rich fabrics, the love of his life curled against his side and fast asleep. And it felt like he had been cursed to Oblivion.

It was the small hours of the morning, perhaps even moments before sunrise, but in the windowless, Dwemer-made mansion he’d never be able to tell. Gerhild had finally fallen asleep, after hours of pouring out her soul to him. And he had spent the time holding her, listening to her, whispering encouragement to her when she seemed close to that debilitating hysteria.

His mind was still reeling, trying to process all she had told him. She had mentioned once that she felt that what had happened to him in Cidhna Mine was worse than what had happened to her, because he had served a year-long sentence, where she had been in there for only a couple of weeks. When he learned what the Thalmor did to her, why she hated them with such a passion, he had to disagree. What was done to him, was done out of physical need. What was done to her, was done to intentionally inflict mental and physical damage.

And the damage to her was lasting. Perhaps she could have gotten over it, if she hadn’t been sentenced to death and found herself looking to the stoic attitude of Ulfric as a guide. And if she hadn’t witnessed and survived Alduin's attack on Helgen—which was ironic as he went there to kill her, but if he had waited one heartbeat more she would have died under the headsman’s axe. And if she hadn’t turned out to be Dragonborn and have a doom hanging over her head that would make most grown men piss themselves. Even now she might recover—he prayed to all Nine Divines that she would recover—if she only had the time and space to allow herself to feel.

That was what he promised himself, that he would be there for her, give her whatever time he could, a moment here, an evening there, so she could heal her emotional wounds. That, and if he ever found this one-eared Thalmor answering to the name Norilar, he was going to skin him. Slowly. With a very dull knife. Then he’d tell Gerhild about him, and have her heal him so he could do it again while she watched and called out suggestions. He didn’t think he could let her do it; she’d probably get carried away and kill the bastard. But he would make sure Norilar suffered for a long time. A very. Long. Time.

As if she sensed his bloodthirsty thoughts, Gerhild shifted in her sleep, her hand tightening where it had bunched his tunic over his heart. He turned his head slightly and kissed her forehead, placing his hand over hers, easing her back to sleep. He held himself still, controlling his thoughts and his breathing, until he was sure she was once more deep within the dreamless restfulness that still eluded him.

Her torture at the hands of the Thalmor wasn’t all she had shared with him. Gerhild had been busy this past year, far too busy in his opinion, running all over Skyrim and Solstheim, stirring up trouble with vampires and ash spawn—there was something he’d never heard of before. She would drive herself into a nervous breakdown if she kept up this pace. And he was determined to see to it that THAT didn’t happen. For all her strength, for all her determination, she was still a woman, not a god.

Well, alright, so Talos—a god—had once been a man, and Dragonborn, so he supposed one could assume that someday Gerhild might…

No, that wouldn’t happen. There have been other Dragonborns, and they’re not all gods, like this Miraak asshole. That’s what they had decided last night, the first thing they would do together, was to see to the end of Miraak. He suspected it was partly because he had mentioned he had never been outside of Skyrim and would like to see Solstheim. But mostly it was because Miraak was occasionally stealing dragon souls from her—souls which were something she dreaded yet coveted—and still sending assassins. They would deal with Miraak, finish him off once and for all, and then focus on the next problem.

Thinking of Miraak and his assassins reminded Vorstag of other assassins that Gerhild admitted had been hunting her. Apparently this past year she also found time to disguise herself and infiltrate a party at the Thalmor Embassy just outside Solitude. Having already heard of her torture, and how Elenwen had been there and even suggested the rape, he was amazed to hear how Gerhild had calmly walked into the Embassy and chatted politely with the First Emissary of the Thalmor in Skyrim. He didn’t think he could have done it, not without ending the conversation by stuffing his fist into her face. That Gerhild had gotten out of there in one piece was impressive, that she had killed a score of Thalmor soldiers was amazing, that she had rescued two prisoners was miraculous.

But now the Thalmor were on to her… sort of. They were looking for a Nord woman who went by the name of Hildegard the Resolute. And she had somehow managed to change her appearance enough that their description of Hildegard didn’t match Gerhild North-Wind. When he asked how, she admitted she couldn’t tell him, as it would be betraying a confidence, which he reluctantly understood. But then she smiled mysteriously—a very womanly thing for her to do—and pulled the front of her dress down below her collarbone. It took him a moment to realized what was missing, and his fingers were feather light against her skin as he touched her unmarred flesh, amazed that such a large scar had been removed without a single blemish. He thought back to when she had been sick with a fever and he had nursed her, all the scars he had seen across her back, and he wondered if she had them removed, too.

His hand on her back, ever so carefully, felt through the fabric of her dress. No, those scars were still there. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, as they had been given to her by the Thalmor. She wouldn’t give those scars up, not until she was healed, not until she could give up her vengeance, not until Norilar was dead.

Aye, he’d help with that.

The stories after that had been lighter, a few errands and favors for the Companions, and helping the Blades get back on their feet. She glossed over her time in Riften, and he had a feeling—knowing Gerhild so well—that she had fallen into bed with the Thieves Guild. Well, not literally fallen into bed with, but no doubt she joined them under one of her personas and has been indulging herself on occasion. He didn’t mind, not really; he understood she had a compulsion, an impulse that was hard to control, and oftentimes she acted without realizing she was doing it. He had learned a long time ago to look the other way, not because he felt it wasn’t wrong—he still felt stealing was illegal—but because she didn’t hurt anyone by it. If she searched a burial urn for a long-buried token, there was no one who would miss it. If she picked a lock, it was usually just to get them past a trap in some crypt. She didn’t use her larcenous urges to steal from those who needed their coin, so he could turn a blind eye and allow her some pleasure.

Pleasure. That had been a particularly shocking thing to learn. She had shared her and Ulfric’s relationship with him, not something he had really wanted to hear all the sordid details of—just the news that Ulfric hadn’t succeeded in bedding her was enough for him. But she had insisted, and he knew she needed to talk about it, so he had listened. She had described in vivid detail what she felt each time, the pain and the panic, and how it was now happening at just the thought of seeing Ulfric. And Ulfric was insistent that they keep trying, that she not give up on herself, even though he was married—Ulfric married?! Gods, that had been a shock!—but she was starting to feel bitter and angry over her failures and had been avoiding Windhelm because of it.

He had listened to her, because she needed him to listen, though what it cost him was indescribable. He had to lie there, his love in his arms, and hear how she continued to try to sleep with another man, how she continued to fail, how she was close to swearing off men for the rest of her life. He wouldn’t let her do that; he couldn’t let her do that. But, Merciful Mara, he couldn’t encourage her to go to Ulfric to try again. And she wasn’t ready to try with him. Maybe, after they had been traveling together for awhile, and she was used to him, and comfortable again, maybe then he would broach the subject.

As things stood now, he had to stop her several times during this part, not because he couldn’t listen to any more, but because the hysteria kept trying to return. He’d hear her words start to run together, her hands would begin to twist or grip his clothing, and he would stop her with a touch, rub soothing circles on her back and kiss her hair and tell her to breathe, just breathe, don’t speak, take your time, it’s alright, you’re safe here, you don’t have to say everything at once. Yet she would force herself to continue onwards, to make sure he knew and understood everything about her. She was driven in this, as she was driven in everything she set out to do, and as soon as she could she pushed herself to plow onward until the last ugly, black, slimy, cancerous memory was excised.

And he listened, though it drove him to heights of anger and broke his heart with deepest despair, because he felt it was his penance.

Because he had realized, though she didn’t admit it or give any indication that she noticed it, that he had hurt her the most.

Because he had left her, one year to the day after she had nearly lost her life in Helgen.

He saw now how much she had needed him then, how much she still needed him, how on that day last year she had been drowning. She had been reeling from one emotion to the next, from astronomical highs to ocean abyssal lows. She had been swamped by the emotions she had denied, unable to cope, unable to keep them at bay, and the one person she could trust unerringly had left her. He thought back in his memories and could easily pick out the signs; why hadn’t he seen them then he couldn’t say. Hindsight is funny that way…

Why she came here to see him, why she forgave him, remained a mystery to him. But he thanked and blessed whatever or whoever it was that encouraged Gerhild to give him this second chance. He wouldn’t blow it this time. Nothing would take him from her side. Nothing would make him give up on her, on his love for her, on her still-denied love for him. And even if it took the rest of their lives, he would patiently help her, show her step-by-step, day-by-day, little-by-little, that she could love, too.

He hadn’t noticed when he finally succumbed to sleep’s blissful embrace, but it was the lack of warmth that woke him. He opened his eyes, sandy and red after the restless night, to find Gerhild had just pulled away from him. “Oh, sorry, I was trying not to wake you.”

“ ’s fine…” he mumbled, rubbing the sharp grains from his eyelashes. “What time is it?”

“No idea,” she answered, already turning away and shrugging out of her dress. The velvet was wrinkled after having been slept in; it would take all day to get the creases out, if they ever came out at all. Gerhild felt a little guilt for what Rhiada faced, but it was immensely easier than cleaning dragon blood and gore from armor—which she still had to finish. It would be so much more convenient if she could have Argis do that for her, but that would mean revealing she was the Dragonborn, which she was loathe to do. Maybe she could get Vorstag to do it, since he already knew. She glanced over her shoulder, but he had resolutely turned his back to her.

“Something wrong?” she asked. He looked at her briefly before he looked away again. It had been long enough, however, for her to see the bright red of his blush. “Oh, come on, you know I don’t wear small clothes. And it’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before. What about that time you took care of me because I was out of my mind with fever from a fear poisoned arrow? You saw my body then.”

“Aye, well,” he coughed, running his fingers through his shoulder-length hair, “That was different.”

“Are you really embarrassed by this?” she asked, gesturing to her body even though he couldn’t see it.

He nodded, squeezing his eyes shut, not willing to trust himself.

“You shouldn’t be. After all, it’s not like you’re interested in it. You’re just one of the guys. I’m just one of the guys. Right?”

Ah, gods, if she only knew… “But it’s… ah… ya know,” he finished with a shrug.

There was a soft noise behind him—something like laughter?—but he didn’t dare look. Not even after he heard the rustling of fabric, or the soft patter of her bare feet on the stone floor. He felt her standing before him, the warmth from her body or some extra perception tingling his senses. He didn’t flinch when she took his hand and placed it on her waist; in fact he looked up sheepishly, but only after he felt the silken fabric beneath his hand.

She thought she understood; it embarrassed him, because it was something that didn’t excite him in the least, and he wasn’t ready to admit such a thing to her, but he had to keep up the pretense of the two of them being lovers. Stuhn’s Shield, but this was getting complicated. The sooner they got away from Markarth, the sooner they could go back to the way things were between them. “I’m sorry, Vorstag, for teasing you. Come on, let’s go break our fast. Then we’ll make plans for Solstheim.”

“Windhelm first,” he reminded her, allowing her to pull him to his feet.

He watched her brow furrow ever so slightly, but felt better when her bottom lip remained away from her teeth. “Aye,” she sighed, letting go of his hand to scoop up her soft boots, “Windhelm first. Then Solstheim.” She paused at the door, bending over to put on one boot then the other, presenting a very shapely buttocks to him. He was glad his tunic was belted outside of his leggings, the hem low enough to hide the very obvious evidence that he was interested in her body. He knew he should have worn his modified codpiece…

Argis and Rhiada were already in the private dining room, clearing away an untouched breakfast and setting out a light lunch. “Oh, excuse us, milady,” she curtsied. “We didn’t mean to wake you…”

“It’s alright; you didn’t wake us,” Gerhild brushed the apology aside. “Besides, it looks like we had slept long enough.” She gestured at the cold breakfast in Argis' arms.

“Ah, well, we left it just in case, well, after last night, we didn’t know when you’d be up, you’d both need your rest after, well, last night seemed rather, oh, I shouldn’t say, I’m not judging…”

Argis cleared his throat, “Rhiada, I think I hear Maniel fussing.”

She gave him a quick look, and seemed about to say something, but then changed her mind and took up the tray he was holding. “I should check on him. Excuse me.”

Argis waited until the door closed before he turned back to them. He walked straight up to Vorstag, who was still disheveled and staring longingly at the lunch spread over the table. Finding Argis suddenly filling his vision made him take an involuntary step back. Argis glared at Vorstag with his one good eye and growled, “If you break her heart, I’ll break your legs.”

“Argis!”

“No, it’s alright,” Vorstag held out a hand to her. “Listen, Argis, I know how this looks, but nothing…”

“Don’t try lying to me,” he continued in his deep gravely voice, “I know. We both heard the chair get knocked over last night, and I came in here to make sure that Lady Gerhild was alright, and I heard the two of you, in there, slamming the bed against the wall…” He broke off, took a pace away, and then wheeled around to step back into Vorstag’s face. “I’m not happy about this, but it’s not up to me, is it? It’s up to Lady Gerhild. But I mean it; break her heart, and I’ll break your legs.” He turned and muttered something meant to be polite to Gerhild before leaving the room, closing the door a little firmer than necessary behind him.

“What the fuck…?” Vorstag stared, dumbfounded, at the closed door.

“What chair? I don’t remember a chair falling over last night…”

“You were pacing,” he filled in for her, having remembered that part, and getting his brain back into gear, “It was just as you were going into your hysterics. I tried to stop you, to keep you quiet, because I figured you wouldn’t want Argis and Rhiada to see you like that. You struggled with me, before I could get the bedchamber door opened, and knocked a chair over. But the bed? I know I threw you kinda harshly on the bed, I was in a bit of a hurry, but I don’t remember it hitting the wall…”

“That was later,” she answered, coming out of her own shock now that she had something to offer to clarify matters. “After I, er, Shouted down your throat, and I thought I’d killed you, I finally remembered that I knew Restoration Magic. Anyway, I healed you, and you went into convulsions when you started breathing. I’m pretty sure you rocked the bed with enough force to bang it against the wall.”

“By the Nine!” he swore, sitting harshly down on the chair and nearly missing it, “So they hear the chair, Argis comes in here just to make sure you’re alright, but by then we’ve moved into the bedroom, where you’ve just healed me, and he hears the bed hitting the wall…”

“And thinks we’re having sex,” she finished. “Aye, I can easily see where he’d get that impression.” She studied Vorstag’s shocked expression for a moment, and then her laughter filled the small room, clear and light like sunshine.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, changing from shock to hurt.

“The face you’re making,” she managed between bursts. “Oh, Vorstag, don’t look so hurt.” She finally managed to get herself under control. “Don’t be upset. If anything, it reinforces your cover, that we’re lovers, remember? By tomorrow afternoon, you’re going to be known as a stallion.” She deliberately did not bring up her guess that there had been something between the two men, years ago, and that Argis might also be feeling a bout of jealousy.

“You’re not upset by this?” he asked, incredulously.

She shook her head. “No, it doesn’t matter to me in the slightest.” Ouch, those words hurt him, but he bore it bravely. “And it shouldn’t upset you, either!” She stuffed a chunk of Eidar cheese in his mouth.

He had to chew and swallow before he could voice his concern, “But I don’t want to break your heart.”

She was sitting across from him, demurely stuffing butter inside a baked potato. She smiled warmly and looked up at him, and for a moment he could almost convince himself her eyes were as warm as her smile. “You could never break my heart, Vorstag. Now, how long, do you think, should we stay here in Markarth before leaving for Windhelm? I wouldn’t want to appear unseemly, rushing off too hastily after my arrival, or there’ll be rumors of our elopement.”

He groaned, easily imagining the stories, no doubt spread mostly by his friend, Ogmund. Maybe they wouldn’t come back to Markarth ever again.

* * *

“And then she Shouted. It was really loud. We could hear it and we were miles away.”

“Huh, is that so?” Moth gro-Bagol, Jarl Igmund’s personal blacksmith, was absently listening to the story as he examined the iron boot. Truly he didn’t much care where the boot had come from, but he had voiced a comment about his concern over a pair of children finding such an unusual item. It was in good condition, and he would give them a fair price, but his comment had started the twins on telling the story of how they found it.

“Yes, it’s true,” Faric nodded emphatically, his eyes wide and filled with images of the warrior in steel plate armor racing to their rescue. “We heard the Shout, and knew it was the Dragonborn we’d seen running down the road. So Fasett and I, we followed, because the Dragonborn can easily defeat a dragon, so we knew we would be safe.”

“And Uncle Vorstag,” piped in Fasett, her eyes shining with memories, highly edited and retouched memories that painted Vorstag as the one who slew the dragon. “He fought the dragon first. She only came along at the very end to help him kill it.”

“So, you two and Vorstag met the Dragonborn?” Moth asked, curious despite himself. One didn’t hear of the Dragonborn in the Reach all that often, though she did get around quite a bit, but if these children could be believed…

“We did,” Faric continued to nod, making the Orc think his head was about to wobble off.

“But Uncle Vorstag knew her already,” Fasett added, her tone a little too boastful when it came to her chosen knight. “After they killed the dragon, he was talking with her like they’d known each other for years.”

“Huh, alright. So, where does the boot come into the story?” Moth gestured with the piece of armor.

“Well, after the dragon was killed…”

“By Uncle Vorstag!”

Faric ignored his sister, other than an elaborate eyeroll that only Moth saw, “…and Uncle Vorstag introduced the Dragonborn to us, she said she had to leave. There were soldiers coming from Markarth, and she saw them, so she told us to wait for them. She only left us because she knew we’d be safe with those soldiers coming. Anyway, after she’d gone, I saw something shiny in between the dragon bones. It was a septim. Then I found another, and that boot, and I asked Uncle Vorstag if I could keep them, and he said sure, and suggested I sell the boot to you for some money for me and my sister.”

“This was underneath the dragon when it died?”

Faric shook his head and smirked, “No, silly, it was in the dragon’s belly. After it died, its body sort of,” he made some complicated weaving patterns with his hands, “And burned away until all that was left was bones and some scales, and the stuff that couldn’t be digested in its stomach.”

“Ah, now I see,” Moth nodded sagely, pretending to play along. “Well, it seems to be in very good shape,” he tapped his knuckle against the shin guard, “Even after being in the belly of a dragon. I won’t lie to you; it’d be worth more if you had found its partner, but for one iron boot I could give you…” he gave it a moment’s thought, “Ten septims.”

Both twins eyes widened even further at the sum. “Deal!” Faric held his hand out, and Moth grabbed it and shook it. Then he walked over to a chest to retrieve his coin purse.

“You children, there,” a haughty voice called from the doorway.

Moth felt his hackles rise at the sound of Ondolemar’s condescending voice, but he gave no other sign of hostility. He turned back, thinking he’d have to protect the children from a new foe, and addressed the Thalmor himself. “Master Ondolemar, what brings you to my smithy today? Does your mace need sharpening?”

Like I’d let your tainted hands anywhere near my mace, Ondolemar thought to himself. “No, no, I was walking past when I heard these children talking. Tell me truthfully,” he looked sternly at the two, who had instinctively shifted until their shoulders were touching for comfort. “Did you really see this self-proclaimed Dragonborn?”

“She’s not self-proclaimed,” Faric rose to her defense, “Uncle Vorstag called her Dragonborn.”

“He called her something else, too,” Fasett added, before she could think about it. Seeing Ondolemar’s glaring golden gaze focus solely on her, she gripped her brother’s hand tight.

“Did he now?” he almost purred, leaning over her, “And what did he call her?”

She tried to back away, but there was a chair behind her. “He… I think… he said her name… maybe… we weren’t close enough to hear it,” she quickly tried to deny.

Ondolemar leaned back, only slightly, to try to ease their nervous stances. “Excuse me, children, for my rudeness. You said you saw the Dragonborn, and I foolishly thought you liars. I humbly apologize, and hope you will forget my indiscretion.”

“Ah, sure…” Faric answered for himself and his sister, who was now wrapping both hands around his arm.

Ondolemar nodded to them, “If I heard correctly, this is the boot that you found within the belly of the dragon?”

“Yes, sir. Moth was gonna buy it from us.”

“I’ll buy it,” he quickly offered, “For fifteen septims.”

Moth knew that a single iron boot wouldn’t be worth that much, but he could find no reason to advise the children against it. When Faric looked to him, he nodded, “Go ahead. That’s a better price than I can offer.” Though he suspected there might be a reason for the Thalmor’s unusual generosity, he couldn’t for the life of him fathom it, and he knew the children and their aunt could benefit from the extra coin.

“Well, then,” Ondolemar passed over the coins. Faric handed them to his sister while he handed the boot to Ondolemar. The Justiciar barely kept the look of disgust off his face as he handed the boot to one of his escorting guards. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you. Good day.”

The twins watched him leave, still nervous. They were so nervous, that when Moth came up behind them and set his hands on their shoulders, they nearly jumped. “You should head back to the kitchen now,” he advised, “Your aunt will be looking for you.”

“Yes, right, we’ll go right away,” Faric promised. With Fasett still clinging tightly to his arm, they raced out of the Keep’s smithy.

And right into Ondolemar’s waiting arms. “Whoa, slow down, there’s no need to rush off, is there?” his voice oozed like grease into their ears. He knelt down until he was below their eye level, hating the necessity, but knowing it would be quicker to flatter the children than it would be to threaten them. Besides, this way he would look friendlier and less suspicious. “I merely wanted to make sure there were no hard feelings between us. As I understand it, you’re going to be working here at the Keep, so we will undoubtedly run into each other quite often. Wouldn’t want there to be any difficulties or awkwardness, would we?”

Faric swallowed audibly, “No, sir.”

“Good, good,” he purred again. In the palm of his gloved hand were several more septims, shining golden in the torchlight. “You know, I am ashamed to admit it, but I find myself curious about the Dragonborn. To have found someone who has met her, well, that’s quite a stroke of luck. I’m positively dying to know anything you can tell me about her, like her real name. You said this Uncle Vorstag called her something…” He picked up a coin and pretended to inspect it, reflecting the light across their faces. Thinking of the talk he had with Norilar regarding Elenwen’s party, he had a sudden inspiration, “Could it have been Hildegarde.”

“It was something-hilly,” Faric nodded, eyeing the gold greedily.

Fasett’s eyes were also glued to the septims flashing in his palm. “No, it was Hilde, short, like a nickname for something longer,” she argued out of habit. “Uncle Vorstag said something else after it, but I don’t remember what it was.”

“Hm, interesting. You also said you saw her. Did you get a good look at her? For instance, do you remember the color of her hair?”

“She had her helmet on, at least where we could see. Maybe Uncle…” Fasett stopped abruptly when Faric’s arm gave a twitch.

“Ah, yes,” Ondolemar purred, thinking of their quaint affectation of the sellsword. “Well,” he stood up abruptly, changing the tone of his voice, “I shouldn’t keep you from your chores. Oh, here, why don’t you two take these coins, but let’s keep this between us, alright? I would be greatly embarrassed it if got out that I, a Thalmor, was a fan of the Dragonborn.”

“Oh, of course, good sir,” Faric readily agreed, snatching the septims from his offered palm before he could change his mind. Then the two were off, racing through the Keep to the safety of the kitchens.

Ondolemar turned to watch them go, but his thoughts were elsewhere. It would be easy for him to jump to the conclusion that Vorstag the Mercenary knew Hildegarde the Resolute, and that Hildegarde was the Dragonborn, but that would be an absurdity. And unlike a certain disgraced Thalmor, he wouldn’t take the word of two half-starved children. He didn’t entirely trust the waifs not to agree to what he said, just because they were so intent on getting those coins.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to throw a bone to Norilar. Not that he expected it to pan out, but it would give Norilar something to do, and make it seem like he was truly trying to offer help. He’d write to him later today, perhaps tomorrow, and mention something vague about Vorstag meeting the Dragonborn, and how he may have called her Hildegarde—what a preposterous notion, Dragonborn and Hildegarde being one and the same. Then he’d sit back and watch Norilar race about Markarth, hunting down Vorstag, and these children, and any guards who might have even caught a glimpse of the Dragonborn from a distance.

He rubbed his gloved hands together slowly and thought to himself, oh, this is going to be entertaining.

* * *

This is going to be entertaining, was precisely the thought running through Norilar’s mind when he finally received Ondolemar’s errant letter. The timing could have been sooner, say, before this Vorstag left Markarth in the company of that elusive Lady Gerhild, which Ondolemar gleefully added to his script. But it didn’t matter, not yet. Norilar would have time to put a plan in place, should he find himself wanting to question this Vorstag; finding someone who knew the Dragonborn would be advantageous. Yet finding Hildegarde was personal, and therefore more important, so Vorstag could wait. And as for Ondolemar’s theory that Hildegarde was the Dragonborn… Well, the idea had merit, even if he knew Ondolemar only mentioned it as a laugh.

It shouldn’t be too hard to either prove or disprove the notion, considering the man waiting in his office. The Nord Legionnaire stood before him, back straight and chest puffed out, all hard lines and efficiency and duty. The uniform was freshly cleaned, the leather oiled and the buckles polished to a mirror-like shine. Even the man himself had taken the time to bathe, his brown hair parted neatly down the middle. He stood before the desk in the typical stance and attitude Norilar had come to expect from the Empire’s soldiers. They were so dull, in a battle they would undoubtedly march in a straight line, shoulder to shoulder with their fellows, and wait to be plowed under by their enemies.

Norilar looked back down to the letter in his hands, pretending it was more important than the man standing before him. Truthfully it was the other way around, but this was part of the entertainment, the part when the torture truly began. And the poor fool didn’t see it coming. He had arrived at least three hours ago, and been made to wait in the hallway outside his office. It was a barren area, no benches or the like for resting, and the walls held racks filled with implements of torture which were stained with evidence of recent use.

Also, there could be heard the faint murmurs of pain and pleading coming from the various prisoners, crammed into their cells just around the corner, savoring their reprieve from the torture chamber. It all was staged to paint a very grim picture in the mind of anyone waiting out there, that Norilar held absolute power within this place. And in the more imaginative of his guests, they began to picture themselves as a prisoner, being tortured for days, weeks, months on end. All this staging was meant to soften them up for his entertainment.

After leaving the Legionnaire cooling his heels for quite some time, he had his assistant unexpectedly open the door, hoping to catch him napping, but the Nord was waiting patiently, his back ramrod straight, his arms clasped behind him, his eyes gazing forwards at nothing in particular. All this was relayed to Norilar through a series of subtle hand movements, which the soldier couldn’t see much less decipher. Then the assistant ushered the soldier into the office and closed the door as he left, leaving him standing before Norilar’s desk, again without a chair to sit upon.

Norilar at last set the letter aside—the pompous ass Ondolemar!—and lifted his face to the Legionnaire. He didn’t speak, but simply looked at him with hooded eyes, as if only vaguely interested in the man. After several moments, during which the soldier didn’t do anything more than blink, Norilar at last stood to face him. This man was so well disciplined, so strong willed, so healthy, it was going to be an absolute pleasure to break him.

“You arrived here when?”

“This morning, Your Honor, about three hours ago.”

“And no one saw you leave Solitude?”

“Aye, sir, just as I was instructed. No one even knows I was coming here. I destroyed your message in a fire, and made sure of the ashes. As far as anyone can tell, I’m a deserter.” He said it with the merest hint of trepidation; deserting his post was a serious crime, but he was trusting Norilar to provide him with an alibi. After all, the Thalmor had singled him out specifically for a special assignment, or so the letter claimed.

Norilar walked around his desk to stand behind the soldier. He could smell it faintly in the air, fear… Man feared the Aldmeri, as they should, even this man here before him, though he fought hard to control his fear. He resisted the urge to rub his hands together with anticipation, but he did allow himself several minutes to enjoy the scent of fear.

He took the time to go over in his mind once more just how he happened to stumble across this Nord. He had sent his guards out to track down any word or rumor of all those who had escaped Helgen. One of his men had found a Bosmer in Riverwood, who remembered a Legionnaire—a former resident of Riverwood—had come through around the right time. It wasn’t hard to press the Bosmer for the name, calling upon his race and loyalty to the Aldmeri Dominion, or at least his fear of defying it. It was then a simple matter to track down this Legionnaire, slip him a clandestine message, and wait for him to do the rest.

“Very good. I have a special task for you, my friend, a very important task. Come, walk with me while we talk. I need to check on something in one of the chambers.”

“Of course, Your Honor, allow me to get the door.”

Norilar allowed a brief smile while the soldier’s back was turned. This was almost too easy, luring him into the last room he would ever see. “Oh, one more thing; your name,” he asked as he crossed the threshold, trusting the Nord to follow, “Just for clarification, you understand. I must keep my paperwork detailed and current.”

“Hadvar of Riverwood.”

The door closed behind him with the heaviness of the headsman’s axe.


	8. Boys Will Be Boys

26th of Heartfire: 4E 203

“And this is Breezehome,” Gerhild said, opening the door. She stepped across the threshold first, letting Vorstag come in after her and close the door.

He looked around the small home, but there were none of the Dwemer-built amenities he was used to in Markarth. In fact, it didn’t look like anyone had even attempted to mimic indoor plumbing or steam vents for heating. Though the foundation looked solid enough being made of stone, the walls were wooden and left him feeling like he was standing in a tent. “It’s… cozy,” he allowed. Before he was forced to think of something else nice to say, there was the sound of footsteps all but tumbling down the stairs. A moment later and a fiercely beautiful woman in steel armor appeared, sword drawn, her lips panting with her sudden exertion.

“My Thane!” she exclaimed, surprised and glad to see Gerhild standing there, but she kept the point of her sword aimed at Vorstag’s own steel clad chest.

“Lydia,” she acknowledged, but Vorstag could hear the slight edge to her tone. Apparently Lydia couldn’t. Where he would have garnered her meaning and backed down, though keeping himself wary, Lydia finished descending the stairs and made to set herself between the other two. “Vorstag, this is my housecarl here in Whiterun, Lydia. Lydia, I’d like you to meet my friend, Vorstag.”

“How do you do?” he said with his most charming, easy-going smile. He wasn’t sure if it was the rouge on her cheeks, but she suddenly looked flushed.

“I’m… well… I mean, I’m well, thank you, I wasn’t… I mean, I didn’t know Lady Gerhild would be bringing a friend…”

“Vorstag is a sellsword,” Gerhild began to explain, dropping her pack to the floor and undoing the buckles of her lightweight, leather armor. “He’s worked for me a few times before, and agreed to travel with me again for a while.”

“Oh, well, welcome to Whiterun, Vorstag,” Lydia batted her eyes at him. He continued to smile, even as he used the back of his gauntleted hand to brush aside the tip of her sword, still pointed at his chest. She realized what she had been doing and flustered again, struggling a little to sheathe her sword. Then she took his offered forearm in the Nordic fashion, a small nervous giggled choked in her throat.

The corner of Gerhild’s left eye gave a little twitch, but other than that she gave no sign of irritation. She continued to loosen the cuirass of her strange, dark gray, sleeveless leather armor. She wouldn’t tell Vorstag where she had gotten it, only that a friend in Solstheim allowed her to have it. It was more comfortable than her steel plate armor for when she had to travel fast and light, which was why she had been wearing it so far in their latest adventure.

“Um, well, will you be staying for supper?” Lydia asked, trying now to set herself between Vorstag and the meager serving of stew bubbling away beside the hearth.

“No,” Gerhild answered for them, “We’ll be dining at the Bannered Mare. Has any correspondence come since I left?”

“What?” Lydia asked, finally taking her eyes off of Vorstag’s face.

“Are there any letters or messages for me?” she repeated.

“Oh, ah, yes, of course, upstairs on the table in your room.”

“Anything important?” she asked, her tone purposefully unconcerned.

“Ah, I wouldn’t know, my Thane,” Lydia quickly answered.

“Well, I should head over to the inn, ya know, get a room, order us some supper.” Vorstag could feel the tension in the air, and wisely didn’t want to be around should Gerhild have a row with her housecarl.

She wanted to protest, and the words had made it to the inside of her lips before she stopped herself. There was absolutely no reason he shouldn’t do exactly as he said. They had already talked about this and made plans, as she knew Breezehome was too small to accommodate a third person. He already had the coin to pay for a room for the three nights they were planning to stay in Whiterun. He wanted to stay longer, but she still felt the drive to keep moving keep doing don’t stop don’t rest…

“I’ll see you in an hour or so?”

His voice crashed into her thoughts like a charging mammoth. She looked up to see him at her side, holding her elbow in his long fingers, his skin as warm as his smile. Aye, he caught her mind wandering, and he was letting her know he knew in the gentlest manner possible.

“Probably closer to two,” she answered in her cool, clear voice, “I’ll want to get freshened up after checking my mail.”

He nodded. “I’ll be waiting for you in the tavern. It was a pleasure meeting you, Lydia,” he gave a short bow to both women before turning to let himself out.

Once the door closed, Lydia let out the breath she had been holding. “Wow. Where did you find him?”

“What do you mean?” Gerhild asked, walking up the steps and leaving her pack for Lydia to carry.

“He’s gorgeous!” she grunted under the weight of the pack. “And such a gentleman. His smile makes my knees melt, and… Oh, wait!” she suddenly stopped herself, her cheeks turning redder beneath her rouge, “You’re not, I mean, the two of you, that is, I didn’t mean to butt in…”

Gerhild’s laughter was light as a feather as she opened the door to her room, completely unfazed by her housecarl’s stammering. “No, Lydia, we’re not lovers.”

“Oh,” she set the pack down beside the chest in the master bedroom. Gerhild had veered towards the table and was sifting through the letters. “Well, why the hell not?”

She turned and raised one delicate golden eyebrow at the other woman. “For a very simple reason: he wouldn’t find me interesting.”

Lydia stared at her for a moment, her jaw slightly slack and her arms dangling at her sides. “You don’t mean he’s…”

Gerhild didn’t answer, other than a small smile and a slight shrug of one shoulder. “What’s this one here? Wasn’t it sealed?” She held up a single sheet of parchment, folded in half, without address or seal or any sign of who sent it.

“It arrived a week after you left,” Lydia answered, shifting from foot to foot. “Just like that, no name, no address, nothing with it. It… fell open while I was putting it on the table.”

Gerhild didn’t comment, as everyone who might have something sensitive to write to her—like Brynjolf—wouldn’t send her a letter in Whiterun, but track her down through trusted connections. Curious, she opened the missive and immediately recognized the bold hand. Her blood ran cold, and she had to set the letter down before the noise of it rattling revealed her trembling.

“It was such an unusual message, and unsigned, I wasn’t sure if it was important or a prank,” she prompted, but her Thane remained staring silently at the letter, now lying open and inculpatory on the table. “So, who’s it from?”

“None of your damn business,” she answered quietly.

Lydia’s cheeks burned yet again that evening, though this time for extremely different reasons. “Of course, my Thane, excuse my boldness, my only concern is for your safety…”

“I have Vorstag to keep me safe, Lydia. You…” she rounded on the other woman, her anger flaring. Seeing her standing there, her hands clasped in front of her and her head bowed, her temper cooled. It was merely Lydia’s nature to be snoopy; she could no more help that than Gerhild could help being so dead inside. “I’m sorry, Lydia, I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on you. You’re doing a fine job here protecting my home and my messages. Keep up the good work; this is very important to me.”

Lydia didn’t answer, other than a nod. She hadn’t managed to make her Thane so mad since that one disastrous time they went adventuring together. Meekly she saluted her and said, “I’ll leave you to your privacy. Let me know when you are ready, and I’ll escort you to the inn.”

Gerhild was about to say how that wasn’t necessary, but then reconsidered. Lydia probably wanted another look at Vorstag, to try to find out for herself if he might be interested in her. She silently wished the woman good luck, thinking it would be amusing to watch someone throw herself at Vorstag. At least there’d be entertainment this evening other than Mikael’s boisterous singing. “Thank you. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

If Lydia was surprised by her Thane’s unusual acceptance of her company, she didn’t show any sign, her head remaining aimed at the floorboards. Gerhild didn’t watch her leave, her attention already back on the handful of letters sitting on her table. She skimmed over the one from Argis as she had seen him since he sent the letter, read the one from First Councilor Morvayn in Raven Rock as that’s where she and Vorstag intended to go, and saved the one from Jarl Idgrod in Morthal for later.

She finished stripping out of her armor as she read, not wanting to analyze why she was rushing to get ready for dinner. It wasn’t as if Vorstag would start without her, or get into trouble here in Whiterun like he had in Windhelm. She draped her armor over the back of a chair and dropped her sleeveless tunic and leggings to the floor, thinking to pick them up later. The water in the basin was cold, but there wasn’t too much dirt to remove, mostly just sweat and the smell of leather. She put on one of the dresses she kept in this house, and sat down on the bed to unbraid her hair.

Her eyes wandered over to the strange letter still sitting open on the table. As her fingers unwound and brushed her tresses, she thought again about the cryptically short contents. She knew exactly who had sent that letter, and what he meant by it, which is why she felt such cold dread pool inside her gut. After finishing with her hair, she decided not to take the time to re-braid it. Instead she rather hurriedly slipped on a pair of soft boots, snatched up the letter and jammed it inside the intentionally placed secret pocket of her gown. Then she was out the door, eager to reach Vorstag as he would be able to offer advice or a calming word that would make the dread go away…

She stopped at the foot of the stairs, catching herself with rambling thoughts and stumbling steps. Lydia had been sitting and eating her supper, and jumped up with surprise at the suddenness of her arrival. Gerhild offered her a small smile and a lame excuse of, "Tripped."

Lydia seemed to take her at her word, setting aside her finished bowl of stew. "You should be more careful, my Thane, or we will need to have a railing installed."

“No, no, I’m fine. Are you ready?” At her nod, Gerhild headed towards where one of her cloaks was hanging nearby the door. “Good. Let’s go; I’m starving.”

“How long are you staying this time?” Lydia asked, closing and locking the front door behind them. “I’m just curious.”

Gerhild resisted the urge to sigh over her nosiness, taking a moment to nod at Amren, who smiled back. His hand grabbed the hilt of his family sword at his hip, lifting it up a little ways as a form of salute. She had retrieved the sword for him after a thief had stolen it, a simple enough task for her, but one he had difficulty with as his wife hadn’t wanted him to risk going himself. Her dimples deepened as she acknowledged his gratitude, but they didn’t stop to talk. “I have one or two matters that need attending to,” she answered her question finally, “But it shouldn’t take more than three or four days. Vorstag and I are only pausing here on our way elsewhere.”

Lydia felt reprimanded again for the brief and vague answer, but Gerhild couldn’t be bothered to notice. Her eyes were scanning the streets of Whiterun, taking in all the sights and smells and sounds. It was always the same, she thought to herself in the back of her head, with each place she returned to, she would take the time to reacquaint herself with the area and the people and remind herself who they saw her as. Never had she been anyplace where she could be herself.

Then again, who was she, really? Everywhere she went she put on an act. Everyone she interacted with saw her as someone different than her true self… except Vorstag. He could see through all her acts, read her as clearly as a book—which meant more now that she knew he could read. And yet he still accepted whatever crumb of her true self she deigned to show him, without complaint over the small amount or needling her for more than she could give. She wondered briefly if he knew her better than she knew herself, as the more roles she took on, and the more obligations she had to own up to, the less of her true self she remembered.

An absurd idea popped in her head, one that related to a thought she had upon her arrival in Markarth regarding marriage. If she took into consideration all she required from a husband—the understanding and space and inequality—and the little she had to offer in return—of her time and her self and her love—Vorstag would make her a good match. Too bad he wasn’t interested in her gender. Nor did he have the desire to hide his true self, as Argis did. He was simply Vorstag, easy-going freelance adventurer for hire, take him or leave him.

She stopped at Fralia’s stall just in front of the Bannered Mare. Outwardly she chatted for a few moments, talking about Fralia’s sons and the war and how it affected business. “Oh, by the way,” Gerhild pretended to just have a thought, “I need to speak with Eorlund tomorrow. I have a steel plate cuirass that needs repairing, and, er, do you think he’d be open to mending it?”

“Ah, you fear he won’t repair it because you didn’t have him make it for you,” Fralia laid a hand withered thin with age over her wrist. She leaned in close to speak softer, her eyes darting to Lydia standing off to the side but not quite far enough not to hear their conversation. “Aye, he’s prideful; he has reason to be. But he knows you’ve done some good things for the Companions. He considers you one of them, or close enough. I’ll talk with him tonight, though, and butter him up for you.”

“Thank you,” Gerhild winked at her. “Now excuse me, but I have a dinner engagement at the Bannered Mare.”

“Oh, that handsome stranger in steel armor who came walking through not long ago?” Fralia pried. “The one with a silver ring on his finger? I thought I saw him coming out of Breezehome.”

Gerhild smiled demurely; of course Fralia would have noticed the armor and the jewelry. “Aye. His name’s Vorstag, and he’s my friend. I’ll introduce you tomorrow on our way up to the Skyforge. But I really should get going.”

“Of course, my dear, of course. Have a wonderful evening.”

Gerhild left, wondering what Fralia would think if she knew the truth: that she and Vorstag felt nothing for each other but friendship, that Lydia had an instant crush on him, that he had no interest in women…

How life could get so confusing…

Inside the Bannered Mare, the atmosphere was warm and inviting. The savory smells of roasted meats and vegetables assailed her nostrils, making her stomach rumble in anticipation. The central hearth was built up bright and strong, lending light and gaiety to the room. Mikael was strumming his lute, sitting off in a corner looking sullen and quiet. Aye, it was going to be a good evening.

Gerhild made her way over to Vorstag, Lydia ensconcing herself at the bar to quietly watch over her Thane. He had commandeered a small table and two chairs, and was looking with an openly confused expression at Olfina, standing over him with arms akimbo. “What is it? Finding the sight of a strong Nord woman difficult to swallow? Name one thing you’re good at; I bet you I can do it better.”

“Ah, Vorstag,” Gerhild came to his rescue, well used to Olfina’s aggressive nature, “So sorry if I’ve kept you waiting. Have you ordered for us already?”

“Ah, no, I was just getting a couple of drinks.”

“Lady Gerhild,” Olfina almost sounded friendly, “I didn’t know you were with him. I’ll get your order right away.”

Vorstag waited until she was out of earshot before blowing a puff of air out of his cheeks. “Thanks for the save. Don’t know what I did to piss her off, but…”

“You’re male,” she waved it aside. “Don’t pay her any attention; it’s all an act, anyway.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, but she shook her head as Olfina was returning, a mug of mead for Vorstag and a goblet of wine for Gerhild.

“Would you like anything to eat?” Her tone was only a little less surly.

“Ya know, I’ve been dreaming about the pheasant roast you make ever since the last time I ate here. If I could have that with a small bowl of vegetable soup, that would be lovely.”

Olfina bobbed her head once, “Fine. And for you?” she rounded on him.

Vorstag blinked, feeling like he was caught in the crosshairs of a Dawnguard's crossbow.

“Try the venison stew,” Gerhild suggested, coming to his aid again, and he nodded his agreement. “Venison stew, aye, that sounds good.”

Olfina didn’t bother speaking again, stalking off towards the kitchen to fill their orders.

“Honestly, Gerhild,” Vorstag felt the need to defend himself, “I didn’t do anything but sit down. She was hostile with me from the start.”

“I know, I know,” she smiled and touched his arm. “Besides, there’s an easy way to shut her up. The next time she says she can do something better than you…”

“Uh-huh, I know this one; I ask her if she can write her name in the snow.”

Gerhild’s laughter rang clear and bright through the tavern, rivaling the merry popping of the fire in the central hearth. Vorstag joined in with his light-hearted chuckle, raising his mug in a toast. She answered by clanking her goblet against it, and then took a polite sip of the deep red liquid.

Dinner was uneventful after that, and indeed the night seemed to be rather boring. Gerhild had been looking forward to Lydia throwing herself at Vorstag, but the housecarl remained at the bar nursing her single drink. And the other source of anticipated entertainment, the bard Mikael, had stayed out of the way. When Gerhild commented, Vorstag merely shrugged his shoulders and said, “Don’t know. He introduced himself as the local bard and resident ladies’ man, asked if I needed any pointers. Then he offered to sing a request. I asked for _‘Ragnar the Red,’_ but only if he knew all seven verses.”

She laughed for the umpteenth time that night, amazed that her cheeks weren’t hurting from all the extra exercise. “Oh, the version you sang the night of my party, with the extra verse where Ragnar beds Matilda.”

“Hey, some would say that was my finest hour,” he sniffed, finishing off his third mug. The silver ring on his smallest finger made a loud clank as he set the empty vessel on the table. Gerhild found her eyes drawn to it, thinking of the day she gave it to him, the day he left her in Windhelm. That brought up another memory, one she wished she had continued to forget. It had been so easy in his warm company, to forget about all her troubles, just knowing he was there at her back, watching her blind spots, catching whatever happened to slip past her.

“You’re not getting morose on me, are you?” he asked quietly, noting the change in her expression. He had seen how eager she had been all evening to act merry and warm, and he knew the more she acted that way, the more she was troubled inside. He watched her lift her cool, deep violet eyes up from the tabletop to meet his gaze. “I only left you alone for an hour or so. What happened? And don’t even try to lie to me; I know you too well.”

“Aye, that you do,” she sighed. Instead of elaborating, however, she reached into her secret pocket and pulled out the strange letter. “This came for me while I was in Markarth.”

Vorstag’s brow scrunched, but he kept his thin lips closed as he took the single-folded parchment from her and opened it. He read the words on the page, short and simple, _“Come to me.”_ Confused, he lifted his soft brown eyes back up and said, “I don’t get it. There’s no name, no place. Who sent this?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized the answer. “Oh.”

“Aye, him,” Gerhild had to look away, staring into her goblet.

“Well, then, it’s a good thing we’re going there next, isn’t it?”

“Vorstag,” she sighed, “You know why he wants to see me, what he’ll want to do, try to do…”

He broke her off, placing a warm hand on her shoulder. “Aye, but Gerhild, you have to tell him how you feel. If he loves you, and you know he does,” gods how it hurt to say those words, “Then he won’t force you. He’ll give you that time and space you feel you need. He’ll understand.” He wasn’t good at this, feeding someone half-truths, or full truths but from a different direction. But he hoped she would someday understand that he, Vorstag, was also giving her the time and space she needed. And he had never forced her, never even coerced her into trying. He had offered, but that’s as far as it ever went, and as far as it would ever go, until she was ready to come to him. To love him.

The door opened and two very large Nords walked in, calling out for mead as if they owned the place. Lydia had turned at the instant commotion, only to turn away and hide her head in her folded forearms. Gerhild had looked up in surprise and welcome, giving them a wave to get their attention. Vorstag had stared, his mouth opened slightly, as the two men walked up to them.

“By the Nine, there’s two of them! I’m not that drunk, am I?”

“You’re not drunk at all,” Gerhild reassured him. “They’re twins.”

Whatever he said in response was lost or swallowed as the two men ambled up to their table. “Hail, Shield-Sister!” the taller and thicker one proclaimed.

The other, smaller but only by the merest of margins, slapped his twin on the shoulder, “Ice-brain, how many times do we gotta tell you, she’s not a Shield-Sister. Hello, Gerhild,” he scornfully dropped her title, as if baiting her for a response. Or maybe he was baiting Vorstag, for as soon as he made to stand and defend her, the smaller twin turned a leering and expectant grin towards him.

“Boys, no fighting indoors,” Gerhild used her best motherly voice. “And don’t make me take you outside like I did last time. It’d be too embarrassing if I did that here at the Bannered Mare.” The larger one grabbed his earlobes, while the smaller one huffed and turned his shoulder to Vorstag. “That’s better. Now, Vorstag, I’d like you to meet Farkas,” she pointed to the larger twin, “And Vilkas, two Companions from Jorrvaskr. Boys, this is my friend, Vorstag.”

Farkas struck out a meaty palm right into his face, which he took reluctantly, fully expecting never to be able to grip his sword again. The smile was warm and friendly enough, the grip even more so, and he returned both with equal enthusiasm. Vilkas’ grip was firmer, however, and his grin tighter, and Vorstag realized he should have expected that from the beginning. He resisted the urge to match the man’s strength, not yet feeling the need to prove himself to Vilkas, or anyone else for that matter.

“So,” Farkas grabbed a nearby bench and dragged it to their table for he and his brother to sit upon. It made a loud noise as the feet scraped the floor, but he seemed oblivious to the various reactions around the room. “You’re back home, again. Are you here to stay? Two mugs of mead!” he shouted this last at Olfina before she could even approach them.

Gerhild shook her head, either at his question or his manners. “Sorry, Farkas, we’ll only be here for a few days…”

Vilkas let the conversation flow around him, paying it only the smallest degree of attention, inserting a comment here or there as it was warranted. Instead he spent his time using his heightened senses to get the measure of Vorstag. He could smell the scent of juniper and soap, and even the dampness still lingering in his thick hair. The tunic, though made from a modest fabric, was tailored to fit his body exactly and the color was a pine green that made his brown eyes seem darker.

Even these little clues he might have dismissed, considering Vorstag’s physique spoke of strength and skill—despite having such a weak handshake—if it hadn’t been for the pinky ring. Every time he took a sip from his mug, the delicate silver band flashed in the firelight. It was a very effeminate piece of jewelry, and that taken together with his assiduous grooming habits, gave Vilkas the impression that Vorstag was softer than he seemed. And the longer the evening went on, the more pronounced Vorstag’s lisp became, aided by the mead. Vilkas smirked to himself, a plan quickly forming in his mind to show Gerhild what a poor choice she had made in a companion.

“But you’ll stop by tomorrow?” Farkas was pressing her. “I’d like to tell Kodlak that you’ll be visiting.”

“After we’ve been to the Skyforge, aye,” she was agreeing.

"Too bad about your armor, or we could've done a little shparring. I don't shupposh you know how to ush a weapon?" Vilkas did a poor imitation of Vorstag's lisp and leaned a little too close into his personal space. Vorstag knew his lisp had been getting stronger all evening, and the others had been polite enough to ignore it, but Vilkas seemed to enjoy baiting him too much. He also had been doing his best to ignore the rude stare, which only encouraged Vilkas to leer harder. This latest comment, however, had been just too much.

Vorstag leaned just as close, their noses almost touching, and asked, “One handed or two?”

“Vorstag…” Gerhild’s comment muttered under her breath was easily ignored.

“Two,” Vilkas smiled humorlessly at the flicker of disgruntlement on Vorstag’s features. “I take it you prefer one handed with a shield.”

“What are you talking about?” Farkas asked, bewilderedly looking between the other two, but also easily ignored.

“Aye,” he nodded, keeping his tone pleasant, “But to keep things fair, we could just use our fists.”

“No!” Gerhild’s voice was firm, and in her best motherly tone. “Absolutely not. I forbid it.”

“Forbid what?” Vorstag asked from behind a thin layer of false innocence.

“I was just offering a friendly little sparring session. After all, if you’re gonna be visiting with the old man, your friend here might get bored. I was only thinking of his entertainment.”

“And I could use the exercise,” Vorstag agreed pleasantly, while inwardly he was wondering what the bigger twin would do if he pummeled his brother. “Tomorrow morning I’ll help Lady Gerhild with her armor, and then meet you inside the Hall.”

“No…”

Villas also easily ignored her protest, “Behind it, actually, in the practice yard. Harbinger gets upset when we fight indoors.”

“I’m the one you shouldn’t upset…”

Vorstag nodded acceptance and added, “Alright. You wanna do this in armor?”

“Can either of you hear me? Or have I turned invisible?”

Vilkas started having trouble suppressing the smirk, “Usually that’s best. Less chance of either one of us getting accidentally hurt. If you don’t have any, I’m sure there’s some scrap armor lying about you can borrow.”

Gerhild crossed her arms and pouted, giving up trying to talk them out of it. “Fine. Alright. Fine. Have your little ‘sparring session’,” everyone could hear the quotes she put around those last two words, “But don’t come running to me to heal you afterwards. You break any bones or bleed to death, you deserve it.” She stood abruptly, signaling the evening was over, at least as far as she was concerned. “Vorstag, I’ll come by and pick you up in the morning. Good night!”

She practically huffed as she spun away, not waiting for any of them to answer her terse farewell. Lydia barely had time to hop down from the barstool and follow her outside.

“What was that all about?” Farkas asked, staring at the door long after she left the tavern.

“You know what she’s like,” Vilkas answered. “She always gets upset when there’s a fight, and makes a big protest. But she’ll be there to heal us, don’t worry.”

Farkas seemed less worried at his brother’s reassurance and smiled. Vorstag nodded but kept his comments to himself, knowing her better than either of the twins. He understood why she never sparred with anyone. If they only knew how it was for her, how the dragon souls acted upon her, making her so much more powerful than other Nords that she had to be very careful sparring with anyone lest she go too far and hurt them. “Until tomorrow?” he asked, raising his mug.

“Until tomorrow,” Vilkas acknowledged, far less heatedly now that Gerhild was gone. Vorstag wondered if Vilkas might be interested in her, too, and that perhaps his aggression was nothing more than posturing to see how serious of a relationship Vorstag had with her. But she had never mentioned anything along those lines, so he brushed it aside as irrelevant. The three of them clanked their vessels together and downed the last of their mead, already looking forward to what promised to be a good sparring session in the morning.

* * *

“The armor was Orc-made,” Gerhild was saying, answering Eorlund’s question.

“Not too bad of craftsmanship,” he acknowledged, turning the cuirass over in his hands, “You have an eye for picking good quality pieces. Even your friend’s armor looks reasonably well made, but by a different smith.”

Vorstag had been watching one of the twins—Vilkas?—attacking a dummy in the practice yard below them. He pulled his eyes away to answer, “Aye, this was made by Oengul War-Anvil in Windhelm.”

Gerhild rolled her eyes. She supposed she should have thought to warn him not to get Eorlund started, but she was still miffed at him for agreeing to fight with Vilkas today.

Eorlund made a sound somewhere between anger and exasperation. “Aye, I’ve heard of him, always saying my steel’s better only because I’m able to use the Skyforge. If I had the time, I’d go to Windhelm and show him a thing or two at his own forge. Insolent whelp!” He turned his shoulder to Vorstag, dismissing him.

Gerhild, too, looked at him with disapproval. Vorstag decided to leave them to their sour moods. “Excuse me, but I think I see Vilkas down there, or maybe it’s Farkas, hard to tell, but since I’ve helped you carry your armor…”

“Aye, Vorstag,” Gerhild sighed, finding herself unable to hold her grudge in the face of his light-hearted mood, “Go and have your little fight. I’ll be down to watch in a little bit.”

He practically raced down the stairs, his steel armor shining in the sun, his helmet tucked under one arm. He was prepared to wear the helmet, but seeing as Vilkas didn’t wear a helmet last night, he thought he’d just bring it along and not wear it unless Vilkas wore a helmet. He wanted things to be fair.

When Gerhild finally managed to pull her eyes away from his retreating form, she found Eorlund watching her. “Well, lass, that was telling.”

“What?” she asked, bewildered.

“Never mind,” he patted her shoulder, and then gestured with the cuirass held easily in his other hand. “I’ll have this mended for you the day after tomorrow, but I’m afraid it will never be as strong as it once was. You’re gonna need to replace it.”

She sighed, staring at the damaged armor. “Aye, I know, I’ll need something a lot stronger.”

“Strong enough to stand up to a dragon,” Eorlund agreed. At her suddenly raised eyebrow, he elaborated, “I figured it out, Lady Gerhild. No one told me, if that’s what worries you. Besides,” he picked at a fleck of something between her shoulder pauldron and the piece that covered her collarbone, “You need to clean it better.”

She recognized the bit leftover from her last dragon fight. “I was a bit rushed after that one…”

“That’s no excuse,” he scolded her. “Take good care of your armor, and it’ll take good care of you.”

“Yes, sir,” she bowed her head contritely.

“Now then,” he set the cuirass aside and took her by the elbow, “What type of armor would you like? Something that hides your face probably, like ebony?”

Gerhild whistled softly through her teeth. “Aye, that would be a fine set to own. Do you… have any pieces?” she asked hesitantly.

“No, but I do have a few ebony ingots. Get me a few more, and I could make you a complete set of ebony armor, even a shield.”

“And a war axe,” she added greedily.

He laughed, sounding like a tolerant father. “Aye, and a war axe, though that’ll be another two ingots.”

She was already nodding agreement. “Deal. I’ll talk with Lydia; I know I’ve come across ebony ore and even ingots before in my travels. I probably have quite a few stored at Breezehome. Let me know how much more you’ll need, and you’ll have it.”

“Fine, fine,” he agreed. “Now, off you go. I heard from my brother that Kodlak is so eager to see you, he actually came upstairs this morning. You shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

Gerhild rolled her eyes. “It probably wasn’t so much the thought of seeing me, as the thought of another fight to watch. Vilkas and Vorstag.”

Eorlund chuckled. “Aye, and I’ll be watching it from up here. Actually, it’s already started,” he nodded with his chin to where two men were circling each other, fists raised, in the practice field.

“Stuhn’s Shield,” she muttered under her breath. “Excuse me, Eorlund…” she called over her shoulder as she began racing down the steps, her skirts barely a hindrance to her flight.

Eorlund watched her go, chuckling to himself, “Aye, lass, that is very telling.” Then he ambled over to the ledge to get a better view of the fight.

Gerhild had no idea what Eorlund was doing or thinking, her focus on reaching Jorrvaskr as quickly as possible. She was NOT headed towards the back, absolutely not, nope, not in any way, shape or form. She was going inside because Kodlak was there and he wanted to see her. That was where she was headed, and why, and she would not set foot on the back porch!

She caught herself turning too far at the foot of the steps and almost lost her balance when she corrected her course to head for the front doors.

While she reached for the latch, she tried vainly to calm her breath before going inside.

As she stepped into the familiar Hall, though outwardly she appeared the calm and cool Lady Gerhild, inwardly her heart still raced. Must be from her sudden sprint down the stairs. She saw Kodlak immediately, fussed over by Tilma who was being ineffectual as a deterrent to the aging, though headstrong Harbinger. He was shuffling closer to the doors, his shoulders hunched with age, a sturdy cane the only thing between him and the floor. He was bound and determined to head outside, however, despite the pain it had to be causing his twisted joints. And Tilma was about to become little more than road kill.

“Out of my way, woman!”

“Kodlak,” Gerhild’s clear voice called out from behind him. He couldn’t turn quick enough to see her before she began crossing the room, circling around the central hearth and dining tables to come up from behind him. He didn’t try twisting the other way, but waited patiently for her to reach his side. “Where are you going? I was told you wanted to visit with me today.” She threw in a pretty little pout, all for show.

“Aye, lass, I do want to see you,” he softened his voice as she took his elbow, but refused to allow her to pull him away from the doors. “But you’ll be here for a few days, or so Farkas said. And this fight is going to be over before I can get outside!”

She rolled her eyes. “What is it about Companions and fighting? Actually,” she paused to consider it, remembering Vorstag’s eagerness to fight Rolff in Windhelm, “What is it about men and fighting?”

Kodlak laughed, strong and hearty, a marked contrast to his age-weakened body. “That, my dear girl, you’ll never understand. And don’t try to. Just accept it. Now, can we get outside before we miss everything?”

His wrinkled face was lit with an eagerness that she found hard to deny. She looked to Tilma and nodded. “I’ll sit with him outside. Could you get the door?”

“Aye, Lady Gerhild,” the servant bowed to her. “And let me help you with the crusty old wolf.”

“I’m not that twisted with age that I need two women fussing over me.” Though the words were heated, the tone was mild. It made Gerhild think that such a thing was exactly what the old man wanted, and he only protested out of habit or for show. Looking up and catching Tilma’s eye, she saw that the other woman was thinking the same thing. They exchanged the private joke before going back to fussing over Kodlak and ushering him slowly and carefully over the threshold and out onto the back porch.

The fight was in full swing, the two combatants having already gotten through the stages of throwing insults and gauging each other’s fighting styles, and were now moving on to testing each other’s strengths and skills. Gerhild supposed she understood the theory behind it, but she really didn’t see why men had to fight to get to know each other.

“How’s it going?” Kodlak asked of Athis as she settled him onto a bench.

“The stranger’s got guts; I’ll give him that. He’s managed to pull Vilkas out of his stance three or four times, but he hasn’t been able to land a good enough blow yet. Ooooh!”

Athis’ exclamation was echoed by everyone else, Vilkas having just thrown what should have been a stunning blow to the side of Vorstag’s jaw. He rolled with the punch, spinning himself around, bleeding off some of the extra force so he could keep his wits within his skull.

“Aye, he’s a keeper, that one,” Kodlak muttered under his breath.

“What was that?” Ria asked, sitting across from them at the bench.

Vorstag countered with a leg sweep that nearly brought Vilkas to the ground.

“I said, he’ll use a sweeper on him,” Kodlak responded a little louder. Gerhild narrowed her eyes, thinking that wasn’t quite what he had said, but she let the matter drop.

“Watch out for his left hook!” Farkas yelled out unnecessarily.

“Stop distracting him, Ice-brain,” Aela slugged his shoulder.

Vilkas had finally managed to regain his balance and was circling Vorstag again, giving them both time to catch their breaths.

“So, he’s the friend,” Kodlak’s comment reached only as far as Gerhild’s ears. She was standing at his side, her fingers clasped in front of her and twisted slightly.

“Aye,” she nearly sighed, her focus on Vorstag. He used his forearm to block a punch, his own punch blocked by Vilkas’ forearm.

“I take it he missed you as much as you missed him.”

She didn’t know if his comment was a question or not, so she didn’t bother to answer. Of course, seeing how securely her eyes were glued to him was answer enough.

“Kick him in the balls!” Njada jeered, always over-eager no matter if she was watching or participating in a fight. Athis winced, remembering his last fistfight with her, one hand instinctively cupping himself. Whether she was encouraging Vilkas or Vorstag, however, neither one made to follow her advice.

“Where are you going after this?” Kodlak asked. Ria had stood up and moved closer to the fight with the others, everyone sensing the entertainment was drawing to a close, so they were relatively alone. He still kept his tone soft, not wanting this part of their conversation overheard.

“Solstheim, eventually,” she answered, catching herself before she said Windhelm. “I think… we’re gonna be traveling together for a quite a while, now. I hope…” she broke off suddenly. Vorstag had landed a kick to the middle of Vilkas’ gut, winding him and sending him flying backwards to land with a thud on the hard-packed earth. Unfortunately, Vorstag had lost his balance as he came down, landing on his side and jamming his elbow. Both men were gasping, sucking air into their battered lungs, their shoulders heaving with the effort. Warily they looked across the distance at each other, and at nearly the same time, both men broke out with grins stretched around their opened mouths.

“Gods!” Vilkas wheezed, at last able to find his voice, “That was fun!”

Vorstag laughed breathlessly, at last able to take his eyes off his opponent. He rolled onto his back in an effort to try to regain his strength. A moment later and he noticed the sunlight was blocked out, Vilkas standing over him and holding out his hand. Well, he wasn’t exactly standing, bent over with his other hand on his knee, but the offer of aid was honest. Vorstag took it, nearly pulling Vilkas off balance again as he scrambled to his feet. Then they swayed, arms around each other for support, as the Companions cheered them both.

“Are you sure this was a good thing?” Gerhild again sought reassurance from Kodlak. Her eyes were sweeping over Vorstag’s form, taking in every detail of every injury, already knowing that her offer to heal them would be denied.

“Look at them, lass,” Kodlak answered just as quietly, “Grins on their faces, arms around each other like brothers.” He sighed wistfully, “Aye, this was a good thing. Your friend, Vorstag, has proven himself and has been accepted. And he got a little fun out of it.”

She was going to ask how getting your face pummeled was supposed to be fun, but the group was already climbing back up the steps to the porch. “Next time, don’t judge a man by his lisp,” Vorstag was saying, having been fairly sure where all of Vilkas’ wrong impressions had come from.

“It wasn’t only that,” he protested mildly, “But you dressed the part, too. And that silver ring on your little finger.”

Vorstag stopped and turned towards him, which was harder to do with their arms around each other. “Lady Gerhild gave me this ring.”

It was the first time his voice had reached a truly menacing tone, darker than even the pre-fight insults. Vilkas blinked at him, and then up at where Gerhild was standing above them like a queen, a new idea forming in his mind. “Aye, well, I’ve apologized, haven’t I? Now, let’s get some mead. Drink!”

They settled on the bench across from the Harbinger, Gerhild remaining standing with her arms firmly crossed beneath her bosom to keep herself from healing them. It took several minutes—Vilkas was on his second mug and relating the part of the fight that Kodlak missed—before Vorstag managed to catch her eye. His soft brown orbs were twinkling, more than a little amused over her pissed-off manner, letting her know without words that he was alright and she was being silly. She rolled her eyes to pull them away, knowing he was right and hating it, and after another moment of quiet protest just for principle, she gave in and sat down with them.

He gave her his most boyish, shit-eating grin. He knew he’d get an earful later, so he was going to enjoy himself while he could. He handed her a mug and raised his, still grinning, while Vilkas continued to tell the tale. She shook her head but clanked her mug against his, and even took a sip, but he saw her bow-shaped lips mutter, “Men!” beneath her breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one problem with writing scenes in Whiterun: Vilkas. Writing a scene with both Vilkas and Vorstag, well, sometimes I use the wrong "V..." name :'D


	9. Silence!

The soft noises coming from the other bedroll woke him. Not that he had been fast asleep, but he had been dozing off peacefully to a wonderful fantasy involving a hot bath and a pair of cool, bow-shaped lips. Then he heard the noise, invading his dream, bringing him back to full consciousness. It was a restless, repetitive scratching sound, like an endlessly twitching foot beneath a blanket, and he realized Gerhild was wide-awake and pensive. That wouldn’t do, not tonight, with everything else hanging over their heads. With a heavy heart, he pushed aside his dream and rolled over to face her.

“Alright,” Vorstag said as he tried to find a comfortable spot on his side, pausing to yawn, “What’s keeping you up?”

His voice hadn’t been loud, but it had been loud enough. The noises stopped guiltily, as if she only now realized she had been making them. But in the next moment there was the sound of her sitting up, and even in the darkness he could catch a shadow of movement as the blanket fell off her shoulders to puddle around her waist. She drew her knees up to her chest and set her chin on top of them, wrapping her arms around her legs. “We’ll be in Windhelm tomorrow.”

Nope, that wasn’t unexpected. “Aye,” he agreed, keeping his tone soothing and calm. He had been afraid of this, that she would grow agitated and anxious the closer they got to Ulfric. But he knew she needed to see Ulfric and talk with him, if he—Vorstag—was to have any chance with her. Repressing the urge to sigh, he tried reassurance first. “We’ve been through this. You know there’s nothing to be worried about. Ulfric cares for you; you’re sure of that, right?” There was that damnable knife twisting in his chest. “So, he’ll listen to you, he’ll want to do what’s right for you. He’ll understand.” Vorstag had to wonder if Ulfric could understand, as he kept pressuring Gerhild, even after their appalling lack of progress. “Right now, he doesn’t understand, because you haven’t told him. But talk with him, let him know how you feel, and I’m sure he won’t pressure you, that he’ll give you the time and space you feel you need.” And if he didn’t, Vorstag would make him.

He wasn’t sure, the moonlight was so dim coming through the thin layer of clouds, but he thought he saw her nod. “I know, but…” and he could imagine her lower lip seeking solace between her teeth, even hidden as it was in shadows and her knees, “What if, instead of going through Windhelm, we go straight to the docks tomorrow…”

“Nope, absolutely not,” he shook his head adamantly. “You forget, you can’t reach the docks unless you go through Windhelm. I suppose we could swim through the river, but even in summer it’s icy cold, and it’s fall now. And I’m not even gonna consider swimming it dressed in full armor. No, Gerhild, we are going to Windhelm, and you will see Ulfric, and it will be alright. I promise. Besides,” he squirmed in his bedroll trying to get in a position that didn’t have a small stone pressing into him, “Looking forward to sleeping in a bed again, safe and sound within a big city with lots of guards. This time, though, think I’ll take a room at the inn.”

She snorted, “Don’t you like Ulfric’s hospitality?”

Frankly, it was because didn’t want to see the man, not trusting himself to keep from shoving his fist down the Jarl’s throat for all the grief he’d been putting Gerhild through. “Oh, aye, it’s fine, but it’s too fine. I’m a simple man, Gerhild, a common man. Jarls and Generals and formal dinners make me feel itchy and uncomfortable. Actually,” he pretended a thought had just occurred to him, but truthfully he had been saving this topic for just such an occasion—distracting Gerhild. “Lydia made me feel uncomfortable, too. Hope you don’t mind me saying that…”

“No, no,” Gerhild answered quickly, eager for any topic of conversation that wasn’t Ulfric-related. “She is rather nosy.”

“I was thinking more of her constant giggling and all those little…” he fluttered his fingers in the air, like he was shooing away a pest, “…touches. She kept brushing my arm with her fingertips, or bumping into me whenever we were walking, and laughing at everything I said like it was the funniest joke she’d ever heard. It was embarrassing the way she kept going on like that. Is she always so weird?”

Gerhild couldn’t help herself. Her shoulders were shaking so hard she was sure Vorstag could see it even though it was the dead of night. “She…” she had to pause to regain control of herself, wondering why the urge to laugh was so great. “She has a crush on you. From the first moment she saw you. All those little gestures and giggling was her way of flirting with you.”

There were several seconds of silence, and she began to wonder what his reaction could be, the light too dim for her to make out anything specific on his features. “Flirting…?” His voice was lost in the shadows. Good, he wasn’t upset, but he did sound perplexed, even shocked.

“Aye, flirting. I told her you wouldn’t be interested in her, but she had to make a fool of herself and try, anyway.”

He listened to the silence for all of four heartbeats before what she said finally hit him. “Wait, how…? What…? You knew I wouldn’t be interested in her?”

Gerhild finally managed to squelch the impulse. Somehow, her composure always seemed to slip around Vorstag, and little things like laughter—genuine laughter, not the staged and calculated kind she usually employed—would come bubbling up to the surface. It scared her, how quickly and often it happened, taking her unawares with its suddenness and sincerity. The concept of humor had always been alien and unfamiliar to her, her childhood having been too harsh to present very many opportunities for enjoyment. Yet whenever she was around Vorstag, a part of her would relax; and she came to learn that, though the loss of self-control frightened her, the fact that it happened only when she was alone with Vorstag was alright, because he was so accepting of her. Like now. “Aye, I figured it out a while ago. I didn’t want to say anything, well, because, ya know, it is kinda personal, and not really anyone else’s business, unless you want them to know, but…”

“You’ve known…” his voice was even more lost than before, “…And you’ve never said anything? You’ve never… I mean, it doesn’t even bother you?” Gods, she knew he was in love with her, had known for Mara knows how long, and she never once let on. He was such a fool!

“No, why should it?” she asked, wondering why he was so shocked she had figured out he preferred men to women. “It’s not like it affects me in any way. I mean, you are what you are, I am what I am, and…” she ended with a shrug. “All that matters to me, is how well we fight together. That other… bedchamber stuff… it isn’t relevant, ya know.”

Aye, he thought sadly to himself, she can see he loves her, but she can also acknowledge the fact that she cannot love—or so she believes. He would still prove her wrong, only now when she finally was able to acknowledge her feelings for him, he wouldn’t have to waste time convincing her that he loved her, too, since she already knew that part. “I’m glad you’re so accepting of it. Not everyone would be.”

Aye, she thought to herself, like Argis’ father hadn’t been accepting of his preferences. Maybe that’s why Vorstag was so quiet about the subject, why he hadn’t found a man and gotten married yet, if he was afraid others would treat him so poorly. She had been under the impression that Skyrim was more open to such matters, that there was a general belief that life was fleeting and one had to take love wherever one found it, but apparently there were those who didn’t feel that way. “Well, I am.” The silence fell between them again, and she found herself searching for another topic to talk and keep her worries at bay. After a moment’s thought, she lamely started, “Speaking about oddly acting people, Vilkas’ was out of line…”

It was Vorstag’s turn to chuckle, his amusement serving to stop her words short. “Does that still bother you?”

“Aye, of course it does,” she countered a little heatedly. “He knew you were my friend, but he purposefully goaded you into that fight. He made fun of your lisp and your clothes, and you just sat there and took it for so long, which only encouraged him to dig harder. I was so mad! I kept kicking him under the table, trying to get him to stop, but he was wearing armor, damn it! I almost bruised my toe, and I don’t think he even noticed. Though I’m pretty sure Farkas did; I hit him by accident once or twice. Poor guy must’ve thought he had said something awkward, the way he kept looking up at us. Will you stop laughing!”

“Sorry,” he tried to wrestle his humor under control, and failed spectacularly, “But that night I had been wondering why you didn’t butt in and try to head us off before we challenged each other, like you usually would. Good to know you’re still looking out for me.”

“And I keep wondering why you have to pick a fight every city we go to. Rolff in Windhelm. Vilkas in Whiterun.”

“What about Dryston in Markarth? That was all you.”

She gaped, her tirade brought to a sudden standstill. “That was different. He was hired to intimidate me into keeping my nose out of that whole Forsworn mess.”

“That’s no different,” he argued, “It was a meaningless fight that could have been avoided. Or one that I should’ve fought on your behalf, being as you had already hired me. Besides, with Rolff and Vilkas, I got something out of it. Respect.”

Gerhild made an exasperated snorting noise. “I got something out of it, too, the name of the man who hired Dryston, remember?”

“That’s all the more reason you should admit that a really good fistfight is beneficial.”

She stopped again. In the lengthening silence, he could almost hear the gears spinning in her head, unable to gain traction as she tried to reason through his sketchy-logic argument. His grin widened, his white teeth almost glowing in the dim light. “Ah, I see what you were doing now,” she sighed, at last catching on. “You’re distracting me, keeping me from worrying about Ulfric. Oh, Vorstag, what would I do without you?”

“Flounder around helplessly, of course. I’m amazed you lasted over a year without me,” he said without any humility. Then, since he was found out, he said in a more serious tone, “Are you still uneasy about tomorrow?”

“Aye,” she shifted on her bedroll, lying down on her side and propping her head on her hand, “But less so. How come you’re so good at helping me with my worries?”

“Don’t know,” he shrugged, “Maybe because, there’ve been times I wish someone would distract me from my fears, and I’ve thought of how I’d like them to do it.”

“And what could you be afraid of?” she asked, her tone a grandiose mocking that was meant jokingly. “You’re Vorstag of Markarth, Protector of the Reach, Defender of Children, Arctic Stones. You’ve killed dragons, faced Draugr Deathlords, navigated ancient Nordic tombs full of deadly traps…”

“Briarhearts,” he admitted softly.

She paused, considering if he were being serious or still joking. Thinking back to his actions when they had cleared out that Forsworn encampment, she decided on serious. “I remember now, the whole never-been-dead-but-their-heart-was-replaced-so-no-longer-alive thing, right?”

“Could we talk about something else?” he shuddered. He rolled over onto his side, facing away from her, really not wanting to think about how Briarhearts made him want to piss himself. He wrapped his arms around his chest, not that he was cold, even though his blanket remained scrunched down around his waist, but he was almost shaking.

“I’m sorry, Vorstag,” she said softly. He nearly jumped; he hadn’t heard her move, but she sounded like she was right next to him. He peeked over his shoulder to see her shadow had moved closer, her white sleeveless tunic glowing in the muted moonlight. When she saw he was looking at her, she continued, “I didn’t mean to tease you or make you feel uncomfortable. Can I make it up you? Make you feel better?”

“Gerhild, no,” he shook his head, “Thanks, but I’m fine. Just go to sleep.”

“Please,” she set her fingers on his bare shoulder, and he wondered if he felt as hot to her as she felt cool to him, “Tell me. What comforts you?”

Distant memories came back, of two young men, huddled together not so much for warmth as for comfort. He had to swallow, his throat constricting, choking on the words he knew he shouldn’t say, but they came out anyway. “I’ve always preferred spooning.”

She heard the huskiness of his voice, and it made her wonder if there was something more behind those words. His tone was almost painful, like he’d been experiencing a long-suffering need that he feared would never be fulfilled—like a starving man for food, or a suffocating man for air. She didn’t ask, she didn’t speak, but retreated to her bedroll and picked it up. She brought it back to spread it out on the ground behind him, crawled under the covers, and hesitantly put a hand on what she thought was his waist. “Like this?”

Ah, gods, why would she put him through this torture, if she knew his feelings yet thought she felt nothing for him? He turned his face away and squeezed his eyes shut tight, pressing one fist against the bridge of his nose, but that only intensified the feeling of her hand on his hip. He nodded, no longer trusting himself to speak, not if his words kept getting him into predicaments like this.

Gerhild saw the movement, her sharp eyes more than a match for the night now that they were so close. She moved even closer, emboldened by his timid acceptance, and slipped her other arm through the small gap between his neck and shoulder. Her lithe body pressed against his back, not tightly, but just enough to show she was there, from her face at the base of his neck to her legs tucked into his. She felt his blanket twitch not too far from her hand, and she realized she had missed his waist and had her hand on his hip. She took a breath, wondering why his body would react this way to her closeness, since she was a woman and not what he would find attractive. Thinking about it for a moment, the answer came quickly to her. He found it stimulating, as this was one of the positions two men could use to have sex. No doubt he was thinking about that—not her, and she had to wonder when the last time was he had had a partner. He never took one while they traveled together, this time or the last time, so perhaps he had one in Markarth. But everyone there thought he was in love with her, so no, he couldn’t have had a lover in Markarth. Therefore, it was reasonable to assume that he had been alone for at least a year-and-a-half, perhaps two years.

His frustrations must be bordering on the edge of physical pain.

Vorstag was having the same thought, cursing himself for having taken off his clothing before bed, his loincloth providing no protection whatsoever from his wayward libido. Her feather-light touch at his hip did nothing to help this, and hot mortification spread over his cheeks when he realized she had to have felt his cock spring to attention due to her close proximity. They both laid still after that for so long that he began to wonder what she thought of him, of his wanton lust presenting itself so readily, even after her admittance that she could feel nothing for him.

Then her hand moved with a graceful caress up to his waist and curved around the bunched covers. It slid frontwards along that ridge to his stomach, where it abandoned the fabric for his skin. It glided over the ripples of his abdominals up to his chest, her fingers plowing furrows through the short hairs to settle over his heart. Aye, torture such as this no man should be forced to endure. Then again, perhaps she was showing, in her own way, that she was alright with his feelings of love towards her, and that she was willing to give him what little she could, if he was willing to accept such a meager amount. Aye, he would accept whatever she gave him, as little or as much, for however long she wanted him around. He swallowed audibly again, and placed his hand over hers, his arm blanketing her arm, their fingers entwining against his skin.

“Gerhild…”

She heard her name on his lips, spoken with that suffering pain. She was about to encourage him to talk and tell her what was the matter, but had to stop herself. She realized that her lips were pressed into his skin, just at the base of his neck. She’d have to pull away to speak, and such an action might seem like she was kissing him. Quickly her mind worked through her options, trying to find some movement that could in no way be taken as a kiss, and settled for moving her head back and forth, like she was scratching her nose in his hair. Not ideal, but it got her mouth away from his skin without incident. This time she settled her cheek on his back, her face lifted to the sky. “Is anything wrong?”

Is anything wrong, he repeated to himself. Only that the woman he’s desperately in love with is spooned against him in a very stimulating manner even though she’s made it very clear she feels nothing for him. Right, not something he should say, if he wanted her to remain convinced that he would never pressure her for more than she was willing to give. Quick, damn it, think of something else! “Um, are there Briarhearts in Solstheim?” He felt her breath rise like a little puff of hot air from the back of his neck to his shoulder.

That was a question she could answer honestly. “No.” She thought she should tell him about the Ash Spawn, but considering they were a cross between Draugr and Briarhearts, she didn’t think it would be such a good thing to mention right before bed. She could feel his heartbeat under her fingers. It had been rapid with his fear of Briarhearts when she first felt it, but now the pace had begun to slow. He’d be asleep soon, and for once she would have given him comfort, instead of always being the one receiving comfort from him. It felt good, she had to admit, and when she dozed off a little later, there was a smile on her lips.

Vorstag laid awake for a long time, listening to the sounds in the night, feeling her breath on his back like miniature bolts of lightning. He knew the moment she drifted off, felt the slackness in her fingers, but selfishly he held them in place. All he had to do was get through tonight, just a few hours, and then they would be in Windhelm. Tomorrow night, he promised himself, tomorrow night he would have the privacy of his own room, whether at the palace or Candlehearth Hall, and then he would take matters in hand.

He blushed again, thinking he perhaps had used a poor choice of words. But, essentially, that was what he was going to be doing. He hadn’t felt the need to relieve any sexual tension during the year he had spent away from her. Traveling with her again was only making him want her more. And he certainly hadn’t been able to take care of the mounting frustration, not with her just a few feet away, sleeping as light as a feather, always alert for any change in sound or movement that might signal danger. Gods, if he woke her up because he was masturbating…

No, he’d hold out for one more night. Then he would have his privacy to take care of the issue. And from this night forwards he would always—ALWAYS—sleep with his modified codpiece in place, no matter how damn uncomfortable it got!

* * *

The evening almost went as expected.

It started out just as he had feared. Gerhild was nervous from the moment the city came into sight. She hid her odd leather armor beneath a cloak and immediately slipped into another one of her personas—this Gerhild was the ward of Ulfric and therefore was entitled to some very special privileges. Vorstag almost sighed to see his Gerhild disappear, but when he looked close enough, she was still there, deep inside, peeking out through the little cracks and chips in the other’s veneer. Someday, there’d have to come a time when Gerhild could be just… Gerhild, when she didn’t have to hide behind titles and assumptions and displays and affectations. Otherwise, she’d lose her true self in all these different personalities, which could only lead to madness, and a mad Dragonborn was a frightening prospect. No, not just for the Dragonborn’s sake—Dragonborn was yet another persona, though an essential one—but for Gerhild’s sake, Vorstag swore to himself he’d find a place, or make one, where she could let down her guard and just… be.

The Stormcloak soldiers knew her by sight, and one or two still remembered him, though more for his single performance at the Candlehearth Hall than for being Gerhild’s companion. She laughed when he blushed at the praise, and looped her arm in his as she lugged him along to the palace. No, she wasn’t going to let him rent a room first, and he gave in, sensing her need to have him close for her own reassurance.

Gods, the torture he put himself through just for her sake.

Ulfric had been gracious enough to offer Vorstag the use of the same room as his last visit, which he tried to decline but only out of show. He had every intention of staying as close as he could to Gerhild, physically and mentally, for as long as she needed him. He heard a relieved little sigh after accepting the room, like she had been holding her breath, as his reward for giving in to her wishes. Aye, he was a sap. A first rate patsy. An easy mark for a pair of dead violet eyes.

But he loved her, and he knew she loved him, even if she didn’t know it herself, so he would continue to agree to the most ridiculous notions, if only to show her their love.

They’d had a little time to freshen up before dinner. He avoided the baths this time, remembering his last experience in the hot water; knowing how awkward his need was growing, he didn’t need the temptation, as there wasn’t enough time to properly see to it and recover afterwards. Instead he used the ice-cold water in the pitcher, washing himself quickly and efficiently, taking full advantage of the cold to get everything back under control. He dressed carefully, codpiece firmly in place beneath his leggings, and even took the time to finger-comb his hair. He wasn’t as presentable nor as handsome as the Jarl, but he wasn’t competing any longer.

He waited out in the hallway, talking quietly with Ralof, getting reacquainted after all these months, until Gerhild appeared. She was stunning—as always—and out of the corner of his eye he saw Ralof’s jaw grow slack in appreciation. She wore her hair free from its braids, the strands full of waves and twists like the surface of quickly flowing water over a rough and shallow streambed. Her dress was of a midnight blue, the bodice cut deeply enough to show her Amulet of Stendarr nestled enviously at the top of those creamy smooth mounds. Her dimples were in full force, her bow-shaped lips dark red and smiling invitingly, as she stepped up to them and slipped a hand in each of their arms.

Vorstag felt himself pressing against that cold metal restraint, and was again very glad he had worn it. Tonight, he promised himself, tonight, right after dinner, as soon as he reached his room… Ah, gods, did she realize how devastating an effect she had on men?

Dinner was uncomfortable, for more reasons than the obvious one. He had been introduced to Nilsine, Ulfric’s young bride, who looked to be the same age as Gerhild, maybe a year or two older. He didn’t have to wonder at the age difference, knowing enough about politics to realize when an older Jarl married a young woman, it was only to produce an heir. He felt himself pitying her for a moment, but then caught the look she gave to her escort, a man named Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced, and he began to have suspicions she may have found a way to make her situation livable.

Ulfric sat at the head of the table, his bride on his right and his Steward, Jorleif, on his left. Galmar sat beside Nilsine, and Gerhild opposite him. It was quite a demotion for her, but she didn’t seem to mind. If anything, Vorstag thought she looked relieved, which he had been sure only he could see the signs of, until Ulfric’s brow grew darker and darker through the meal. Aye, he remembered how the Jarl felt about Gerhild, and how observant he could be, so of course he saw those miniscule tells of hers just as easily as Vorstag could see them. Well, it should only serve to reinforce Gerhild’s sincerity when she told him of her need for space and time. And if he cared anything for her—Vorstag doubted it though Gerhild did not—he would give in.

Vorstag and Ralof sat further down the table, out of the conversations at the head of the table, though not out of earshot. The spoke quietly between themselves, not wanting to disturb their ‘betters,’ and made their own plans for a trip to the Candlehearth Hall to finish exchanging stories.

That wasn’t to be.

Immediately after dinner finished, Ulfric had decreed that he and Galmar needed to speak with Vorstag and hear his latest report. Seeing that the men would be occupied, Nilsine asked Gerhild to join her in an evening stroll so they could have a ‘girl talk,’ which amazingly she agreed to without qualm. Ralof had shot him an apologetic look that said they would have to have that mug at the inn another time, and took his position as Gerhild’s escort beside Nilsine’s escort. And Vorstag fell into step behind Ulfric and Galmar, feeling like he was being escorted to the block.

It had to be well after midnight, the three of them still in the war room, going over again and again not only his latest report about the reinforcements to Fort Sunguard, but all his earlier reports as well. Vorstag knew he was beyond the point of being ready for bed, but Ulfric seemed tireless as he stood and grilled the other Nord.

“So you thought to come here to deliver this report personally.”

It wasn’t quite a question, but Vorstag knew his integrity was being put to the test. He supposed he should have expected this, or something like it, as he knew that Ulfric had feelings for Gerhild. It was natural for him to be suspicious of Vorstag suddenly showing up in her company, with the excuse that he’d done all he could in the Reach. He didn’t fool himself for a moment into thinking that Ulfric wouldn’t be considering the possibility that Vorstag was interested in Gerhild. Or that he was considering ways to get rid of any competition.

“It just sort of happened,” Vorstag admitted, keeping his features calm. “One day, I was taking note of the amount of men and supplies being sent to Fort Sunguard, the next day, Gerhild shows up. Well,” he smiled charmingly, knowing it wouldn’t work on Ulfric but not wanting to tip his hand by acting out of character, “I should say, the Dragonborn showed up. I’m sure Gerhild will tell you about that later. Anyway, when I got back to Markarth, she was there, waiting for me, and asked if I wanted to travel with her for a while. I thought, why not? I’d done what I set out to do, found out about all the latest movements and locations of Imperial encampments, and even got you leverage to use to secure the position of Jarl for whomever you want. I know Gerhild’s mentioned this, but the Silver-Blood family are firm supporters…”

“I know that!”

The bark was full of anger, and Vorstag didn’t have to affect the slight amount of fear on his features. He was fairly sure Ulfric wouldn’t hurt him, as he was fairly sure Ulfric knew doing so would incur Gerhild’s wrath, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t do something else to make his life miserable.

Like order him back to Markarth.

“Excuse me, Jarl Ulfric,” he began, offering a short bow, “I didn’t mean to tell you how to conduct your business. All these political maneuverings and war strategies are beyond a simple man like myself. I only recently came to understand the significance of…”

“I’m sure you meant no disrespect,” Galmar, surprisingly, came to his rescue. “You’ll have to excuse Ulfric,” he pronounced the name with a double “oo” sound, rather than the more commonly used short “u” sound. “He’s been under a lot of personal stress lately. It’s spilled over into his work.”

“I don’t need you talking about it so openly,” he warned, his deep voice sounding like a sabre cat’s growl.

“Oh, was it a secret?” Galmar feigned surprise, “Because you certainly weren’t keeping quiet about it.”

Ulfric looked like he had swallowed a lemon, his lips pursed and his face turning red in anger.

Galmar made a show of giving an unconcerned shrug and turned back to Vorstag. “Anything else to report?”

He shook his head. “No, sir. That’s it; all I could find out.”

“What are your plans? Traveling with Gerhild, you said,” Galmar prompted, talking pleasantly despite his gruff voice, all but destroyed after years of shouting orders to make himself heard over the din of battle.

“Aye,” Vorstag refused to look at Ulfric, who was only now managing to take a breath. He had never seen him so close to losing control before, and didn’t want to see it again. He kept his eyes focused on Galmar as he elaborated, “She wants to head to Solstheim again. Suppose you know about Miraak.”

“Miraak!” That knocked Ulfric out of his anger, his concern for her well-being taking precedence. Apparently she had kept him apprised of this other Dragonborn and his soul-stealing habits. “She can’t do that. He’s too powerful for her, still. She’ll be…”

“She’ll be just fine,” Galmar said, trying to cover for Ulfric’s slip. “If it’s one thing I know about our little Gerhild, it’s that she’s resourceful. She doesn’t rely on strength alone to defeat her enemies, but on strategy as well. She’ll find a way to defeat Miraak, no doubt about that.” He paused to give an easy chuckle. “As stubborn as Ulgaarth, and as resourceful as Maeganna, Gerhild is an extraordinary young woman. Her parents would be very proud of her.”

Ulfric again found his control slipping. Damn Galmar for mentioning that traitorous bastard Ulgaarth, and that faithless bitch Maeganna… No, no, he wouldn’t blame Maeganna; he had loved her, she had loved him. Ulgaarth was to blame. He had trusted Ulgaarth to bring Maeganna and her unborn child—his heir—safely to Windhelm. But they had been forced to detour into Cyrodiil, cornered by Imperial soldiers, barely escaped with their lives, and the babe had been lost. The two of them hadn’t been able to return to Windhelm and face Ulfric, both of them feeling as if they had failed him. So they had stayed in exile in Cyrodiil, eventually finding affection for each other, which came to fruition in Gerhild.

Ah, Gerhild, so like in features to her mother, so like in personality to her father—the bastard! But Gerhild was the one he desired now, with her dark gold hair and her bottomless violet eyes, he needed her as much as he needed air. And to think he had to be saddled with Nilsine. Merciful Mara, if only he had been able to convince Gerhild to marry him…

Nothing of his thoughts showed on his stoic and craggy features, though internally he was floundering, finding himself unable to make any headway against his emotions and thoughts and desires. He had always been driven with a single-minded purpose before: destroy the Thalmor. They had captured him during the Great War, tortured him, broken him… By Talos, what he would give to have another chance, to go back in time and hold out for just a few more days, and maybe Imperial City wouldn’t have been sacked, maybe he might have died instead of breaking… But that was the past, immutable, absolute, and damning. He had tried to make up for his single betrayal; he had stayed loyal and steadfast to his heritage and his gods even after the Empire bent their necks to the unholy demands of the Aldmeri Dominion. And these morals had forced him to start this Civil War, if only to keep Skyrim strong and apart from the weak and crumbling Empire. Because the Thalmor would return one day, there would be another war, and if Skyrim was to survive, it had to stand sturdily on its own two feet.

Now, however, he found himself with another goal in his life. Gerhild. A second chance. A type of redemption for his stained and condemned soul. If he could love Gerhild as he had never let himself love Maeganna, maybe his life could change. Maybe he could find peace from his abhorrent nightmares, from his overpowering impetus, from his eternal anguish. That she continued to refuse him was only his purgatory, a part of his justified payment for breaking beneath Elenwen’s torturous ministrations. He’d persevere, and eventually—after he had suffered enough—Gerhild would turn to him. She’d come to him and they would embrace and become one. She’d bear him a son, the son of a Jarl and a Dragonborn, a fitting son to follow in his footsteps. No, not follow, but forge his own path, a better path, that would finish his work, free Skyrim from the Empire, and go on to wipe out the Thalmor and their self-styled Aldmeri Dominion.

He had wanted his heir to be legitimate, but with Nilsine as his wife, that was now impossible. Unless something was to happen to her, and in his grief, he would turn to Gerhild, and she would open to him at last.

Galmar tried to ignore Ulfric’s unusual amount of quiet. He had noticed, ever since the wedding, that his Jarl was having more difficulty than usual. He had tried to excuse it, chalk it up to the pressures of his husbandly duties. He could only imagine how difficult it had to be for Ulfric, scarred as he was physically—he had seen the scars only once and that was enough—and mentally, to show his ruined form to a young woman’s eyes, to watch her face fill with revulsion, and still perform adequately enough to plant his seed within her. No, Ulfric didn’t have it easy right then, but he had his duty to his Hold as well as his duty to Skyrim, and part of that was ensuring his line would continue. Nilsine had been ideal, perhaps not in Ulfric’s eyes, but everyone else seemed to think so. She was young, pretty, demure, pliable, and—gods willing—fertile. That there wasn’t a babe yet was worrisome, but Galmar did his best to head off any doubts that he heard circulating among the men. He always did his best to protect his Jarl, his friend, whether from weapon or rumor, from plot or battle, from open attack or silent assassination, even sometimes from himself.

He protected him now, taking over the debriefing of Vorstag, allowing Ulfric the time he needed to get himself back under some semblance of control. Seeing Gerhild arrive tonight had been a surprise; seeing Vorstag in her company had been a shock. It wasn’t unexpected at all that he would have trouble keeping his temper in check. Jealousy was a wicked emotion, whether or not it had grounds. Though Galmar wasn’t sure about Vorstag’s preferences when it came to bedmates, he knew the sellsword was close to Gerhild nonetheless, and anyone closer to her than Ulfric would be seen as a threat. So he protected Vorstag from Ulfric, because if Ulfric hurt Vorstag he would anger Gerhild, and she would hurt him far worse than anything he could do to Vorstag.

All she had to do was leave Windhelm and never return.

The door opened with a bang behind Vorstag, the noise making him jump as he spun around, his hand automatically reaching for a weapon that was currently not sheathed at his side due to his dining with the Jarl. Galmar had his out immediately, his duties as the Jarl’s housecarl granting him special privileges, the iron battle-axe held easily in both hands. He didn’t put it away, even after seeing the rude intruder was a Stormcloak soldier; such an entrance warranted caution until the cause was determined.

“What is the meaning of this?” he barked in his best parade ground voice, the soldier snapping to attention before he finished speaking.

“Excuse me,” the woman panted, “Sirs, my Jarl, but I was sent for you, for the Jarl, Lady Nilsine, Lady Gerhild, there was an assassin…”

“What!” Ulfric’s voice thundered, the power of his Thu’um echoing within the single word.

* * *

Nilsine had been nervous about Gerhild.

It wasn't for the obvious reason, but for something a little more subtle. She had heard the stories; everyone in Windhelm knew about Gerhild of Skyrim, the girl who survived Helgen, who became Dragonborn, who was under Ulfric’s personal protection.

And there it was what worried her—Gerhild was Ulfric's ward. Nilsine was married to Ulfric only to give him an heir, a legitimate heir, but what if he already had an heir? She had only ever seen Gerhild from a distance before, and her dark gold hair had seemed close in color to Ulfric’s hair. After meeting her at dinner, however, she realized her fears were unfounded. Gerhild’s hair was lighter, and she had none of Ulfric’s features. She was, in fact, younger than Nilsine, which gave her more cause for relief. Not only was she too different in looks to be Ulfric’s illegitimate daughter, but she was too young to be his mistress.

Nilsine had felt silly, and guilty, for thinking so poorly of Gerhild, and even though Gerhild didn’t understand why, Nilsine still felt the need to make it up to her. When she heard the men were going to conduct business for the rest of the evening, she decided it was the perfect opportunity to get to know Gerhild better, and perhaps make a friend out of the only other woman close to her own age in this palace full of old male warriors. Thankfully she had been willing, linking their arms as they took a stroll around the city, talking about everything from dresses to favorite foods to boys.

This last topic seemed to make Gerhild a little uncomfortable, especially when Nilsine asked about the sellsword traveling with her—if they were lovers. She thought the man looked amazing, and his smile could make her knees melt, but Gerhild didn’t seem quite so interested in him as a lover. She said he was good in a fight, and that she could trust him at her back, and that was about as far as their relationship went. Nilsine smiled to herself, already making plans for that day—that wonderful day—when her duty to Ulfric would be fulfilled and she could take a lover. Vorstag had made her short list of candidates.

Another man on that short list was her escort, Yrsarald. He seemed attentive enough to her wants, or he might just be performing his duties as her escort, but it would be some time before she could find out. She sighed, stealing a glance over her shoulder to see his hulking form following at a respectful distance, his eyes constantly scanning for any signs of danger. His features were less gaunt than Ulfric’s, his coloring a little darker and his eyes a lot kinder. And once she had managed to see him without a tunic, when he had been practicing with the other soldiers, and he had flexed and posed to show off his muscles. If only she could tell if his attentiveness was out of duty, or something more.

“It’s getting late, milady,” Gerhild’s cool and clear voice stole into her thoughts. “We should return to the palace.”

“Don’t call me ‘milady,’” she chided, “We’re practically the same age.”

“But you outrank me,” Gerhild pointed out, “As the wife of my Jarl.”

Nilsine pouted, a fairly practiced and pretty display, but wasted on someone like Gerhild. “So, you agreed to talk with me tonight out of duty.”

Gerhild laughed, light and easy, and Nilsine found herself smiling just a little, ruining the pout. “No, I agreed to talk with you because I wanted to get to know you. And I’m glad I did. But I lost track of the time, and it is very late, and very dark, and I think our escorts are very nervous.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “I only see Yrsarald. Where’s your escort, Ralof?”

“He’s checking the alley over there,” Gerhild gestured with her chin. “It’s silly, really, for me to have an escort…”

“Because you’re Dragonborn,” Nilsine whispered in confidence.

Gerhild smiled in agreement, “But I am thankful they are here tonight. I have to admit, talking with you has been enjoyable, and I’ve gotten distracted enough a few times to have let my attention wander. Besides, if anything happened to you because of me, I’d never forgive myself, nor would Ulfric.”

Nilsine’s brow grew concerned, that nagging suspicion back again. But she and Ulfric couldn’t be lovers, could they? “You… care about him, don’t you?”

Gerhild quickly saw through to the heart of the matter, and for once wasn’t sure how to respond. “In a way,” she began slowly, not sure where she was headed, “I suppose so. He and my parents were close friends. And when I came here to Skyrim… well… in Helgen, he…” Her voice trailed away as they entered the palace. No, she didn’t want to relate that whole tragic tale, not to such an innocent as Nilsine. She was growing as a woman, and learning about life and the world, but she was still too sheltered in some matters. Gerhild squared her shoulders and finished, “He gave me courage when I needed it, and a sort of home. I’m indebted to him for that. And for the training he’s given me with Thu’ums. I suppose, I see him as a teacher or mentor, or even a father figure, and the last thing I want to do is disappoint him.”

Nilsine sighed, feeling guilty again: for suspecting Gerhild of being his mistress, and for disappointing him by remaining infertile. “Aye, I feel the same way, sometimes.”

Gerhild wondered what she meant, but she didn’t press the issue, sensing it was something too personal for Nilsine to share with a woman she had met only a few hours ago.

They climbed the stairs to Nilsine’s bedchamber, Yrsarald and Ralof following at their heels like obedient puppies. Nilsine paid them no mind, keeping a firm hold on Gerhild’s arm and stating, “Stay up with me for a while longer, will you? I want to hear all about your adventures as the Dragonborn.”

Gerhild rolled her eyes in a good-natured fashion. “Fine,” she laughingly gave in, “But keep in mind I’ve been traveling hard for the past week to get here. I’m tired. Don’t be surprised if I fall asleep in the middle of a tale.”

The men remained in the hallway, Nilsine pushing open the door and stepping inside, also laughing. Gerhild automatically pushed the door closed behind her, even though her senses were screaming at her that something was wrong. Nilsine had walked into the center of the room before she, too, realized there was something amiss. She stopped suddenly, turning back towards the door, and said, “Why is it so dark in here? The servants should have at the very least left a lit candle for me.”

“Silence!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, Ulfric’s a slime-ball, scumbag, PTSD-suffering, demented and delusional son of a bitch. And he revels in it. Though he doesn't act this way in game, in my fanfic I felt Ulfric needed more of an edge, an ends-justify-the-means, driven-with-single-minded-purpose, make-any-sacrifice-to-achieve-his-goal quality. Perhaps I went too far… *taps chin while pondering the possibility*  
> And on a personal rant, I absolutely HATE Yrsarald's name! I never seem to get it spelled right!


	10. A Leap of Faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. My bad. I got busy with the real world and forgot I ended the last chapter on a cliffhanger.

The room was dark, without a candle or a flicker of flame from the hearth. All of Gerhild’s senses were screaming at her that there was danger, and to take action, but she needed direction first. “Silence!” she hissed at Nilsine, leaving the door to come up beside her in three longs strides that were amazingly unhindered by her skirts. She wrapped one hand over Nilsine’s mouth for good measure, gripping her upper arm in her other hand. _“Laas Yah Nir…”_

Nilsine’s eyes widened, realizing that she had just witnessed a Shout, though it wasn’t anything like she would have expected. It was more a whisper than a shout, without any sort of force or power that she could feel, but she knew something had happened as Gerhild’s eyes changed color, glowing with a light of their own. She felt her cheeks flush as she had to admit, part of her didn’t believe that Gerhild was the Dragonborn. Now she had proof.

Gerhild was unaware of Nilsine’s mental state, other than the slight trembling she felt through her arm. She was more concerned with the physical state of the room. It had been too dark inside, with not a single candle lit and the fire extinguished. She should have noticed it right away. She should have kept Nilsine outside with the men. She definitely should never have allowed her to reach the center of the room, where they could be easily surrounded if there happened to be more than one enemy. So she had Shouted, and used that other sense to look around the room slowly, as no one and nothing could hide from her Thu’um, not bandit, nor Draugr, nor Ash Spawn, nor Dwemer automaton.

She saw Nilsine beside her, a strange sort of double-image that she didn’t bother to decipher at the moment. She could sense through the stonework other people in the palace in various rooms and on various floors, but she concentrated on what was closest. Turning slowly, she let go of Nilsine’s arm and grabbed her hand, circling around until she was sure of the whole room, as well as confirming what she had noticed about Nilsine. Then she backed her against the wall and stood in front of her. “Stay behind me,” she said calmly, not bothering to stay quiet, spreading her arms wide to keep her there if she panicked and decided to run.

“Why?” Nilsine’s voice was timid, shaking with fear, mostly fear of the unknown. Gerhild wondered how much more it would shake if she knew who else was in the room with them. She felt Nilsine’s hands on her shoulders as she tried to peek around her head, but the room remained full of the all-too-concealing shadows.

“Just…” Gerhild bit her lip, not wanting to scare Nilsine but knowing she had to ensure her cooperation. “There’s someone in here with us. Just stay calm and I’ll handle…”

“HELP!!!!!” Nilsine screamed. “HELP! YRSARALD! RALOF! GET IN HERE! HELP ME! HELP!”

“Silence!” Gerhild made herself heard over her screams, leaning back to press her into the wall and snap her out of her hysterics. “It won’t do any good to scream. The walls and door are too thick; they’ll never hear you. All you’ll do is make me deaf.”

“We’ve gotta get out of here!” she shoved at Gerhild, who remained as immovable as the stones behind her.

“We can’t,” she admitted somewhat sheepishly, “He’s between us and the door. Just… stay behind me. I’ll take care of this.”

“What is it?” she asked, her voice quieter but not much. “What’s there? Who’s there?”

A shadow moved, almost discernable to her eyes as they grew accustomed to the near-absolute darkness. As Gerhild had said, it was between them and the door, moving closer slowly as if approaching a wild animal and not wishing to startle it. “Good evening, ladies,” a male voice floated across the darkness towards them. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am a member of the Dark Brotherhood.” Nilsine trembled, made a sound somewhere between a whine and a sigh, and her body went slack.

Gerhild wanted to curse. She was the only thing holding the woman up off the floor, but she couldn’t fight and protect her if she had to support her weight on her back. She awkwardly reached around behind her and lowered Nilsine as gently to the floor as possible, while facing the assassin as much as possible. His voice had been familiar, though not immediately recognizable due to being muffled behind a veil, perhaps? Whether she knew him or not, she would kill him; he’d never get the chance to harm a hair on Nilsine’s head.

“Be careful, assassin!” she spat the title like an insult. “Your next move could be your last.”

He stopped his advance, no doubt taking her at her word. “I’m not here for you,” he admitted. “In fact, I’m not here for the Jarl’s wife, either. At least, not exactly, I mean, I am, but not in the manner you think.”

Gerhild smiled coldly, “You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t trust you.” She flung out her hand and cast a flame spell at the hearth, sending blazing light throughout the room.

Just as quickly the assassin cast a frost spell at the hearth, extinguishing the fire and returning the concealing darkness.

“Nice,” she admitted, maintaining her position. She had kept her eyes closed for that split second of light, figuring he might counter her and wanting to preserve her night vision. He was probably blinking stars out of his sight, but he didn’t move, either. He was a very well trained assassin, which meant she and Nilsine were in even greater danger than she had first determined. “But I have one move you can’t counter.”

“If you mean to Shout at me, Dragonborn,” he said, surprising her by knowing her so well, “I wish you wouldn’t. I assure you, I’m not here to kill you or Nilsine or anyone else. I just want to warn you. Warn her.”

She shouldn’t do it, but she found herself wanting to trust the man. Her instincts were at war with her training and knowledge. She wanted to believe him, but as a member of the Dark Brotherhood, he would be skillful in telling lies and half-truths and gaining confidences. If she was wrong and he was merely trying to catch her off guard… Well, she didn’t have to just stand there and wait for him to talk or attack; she could always incapacitate him first. She knew Ulfric had a fully equipped dungeon. And as distasteful as the thought was, she knew they would get the truth out of him, one way or another.

“You pick an odd way to deliver a warning,” she said, trying to draw him into speaking just one more time. “Doesn’t instill a lot of confidence, ya know, sneaking into a woman’s bedchamber in the middle of the night.”

“If I had intended to kill Nilsine, she’d have died sometime during your walk this evening,” he boasted, “After ingesting poison at… argh!”

Gerhild had lunged, confirming his position by the sound of his voice, and quickly made to grab hold of him. He sidestepped and countered, drawing a dagger out of its sheath and aiming for her throat. She made to grab his wrist, but was too slow, his tight fist pushing against her larynx as he made to spill her blood. However, the blade fell from his hand before it reached her artery; she felt the dagger bounce off her skirts on its way to landing with a hushed clatter on the floor.

Her eyes widened as they stood there, nose-to-nose, holding onto each other. She knew that dagger; it was enchanted, unable to harm the friend of whoever wielded it. It had once belonged to her, after finding it forgotten inside a tomb. And she had given it too… She let go of his wrist to grab for his veil, pulling it down and revealing shadowy features to her sharp eyes. A heartbeat later, and his fist flew at her face, slicing open her lip.

She spun away under the force of the blow, and he twisted his other wrist out of her grasp. She was staggered, a ringing bursting in her skull like a death knell. But the assassin made no move to finish her off before she could collect her scattered wits. She turned back slowly, ignoring the blood trailing from her lip down her neck, and spoke one word. “You?”

The man stood there a moment, rubbing at where her grip had bruised him. “Me.”

“You’ve grown,” she looked at where he face should be, on an even level with her own.

“Aye. Amazing what a home, a loving family, and three square meals a day can do for a starving orphan.”

“Why?” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded small and bewildered.

“Like I said, if I had wanted to kill Nilsine, she’d already be dead. But she wasn’t part of the contract, not at first. She would’ve been a bonus, and I was tempted, but…”

“I don’t understand,” she shook the last of the ringing from her ears. “Start at the beginning. You’re an assassin now?”

He laughed softly, somewhat muffled; he must have replaced his veil. “You shouldn’t sound so surprised. You started me on this path, remember? Aye, I’m with the Dark Brotherhood. Long story. I’d be willing to tell you sometime, but not tonight. Anyway, there was a Black Sacrament performed, and I was assigned to fulfill it. My target was a man, never mind who, but the person who gave me the contract, she also wanted Nilsine killed. Now, Nilsine wasn’t part of the original contract, just a bonus, and I seriously considered killing her, as it would hurt Ulfric and I want to see him hurt. But,” he sighed, “She’s such an innocent. And your friend. And I don’t want to hurt you. So, consider this a warning. Someone wants her dead. Someone bold enough and resourceful enough to perform the Black Sacrament. This someone might do it again, since I let Nilsine live, and the next assassin won’t be as kind as me. Take precautions.”

“We will,” Gerhild said simply.

“I should go,” he stated, and she saw his shadow head towards the opened window.

“Wait!” Gerhild reached down and scooped up the dagger. It felt comfortable and familiar in her hand, but she held it out for the young man, hilt first. “You forgot this. Don’t want to leave any evidence behind.”

“Speaking of which,” he muttered softly as he sheathed the blade, “She’s coming around. Sorry about this.”

“About what?” Gerhild asked, or tried to, but his fist was again flying towards her face. She was still too shocked to get a block in, and felt him connect, felt her face turn under the force, felt the cut on her lip open even wider. Her shoulders followed her head, and her torso her shoulders, her body twisting until at last her feet had to move to keep her off the ground. She stumbled and finished the circle, coming back around to face the window again. Instinctively she Shouted, _“Fus Ro Dah!”_

Her aim was off, her eyes glazed from the blow, and instead of hitting the assassin she shattered the glass out of the window. It didn’t matter, as he was already gone, dropping over the ledge to disappear from sight. She raced to the devastated window, leaning out over the sill, unmindful of the broken glass falling like miniature guillotine blades around her.

“HELP!” a very feminine scream sounded from behind her, but she couldn’t be bothered with Nilsine at the moment. Her eyes were scanning, half afraid she had hurt him, half afraid he had hurt himself. Then she saw a shadow race across a lower roofline, hesitate at the edge, and raise an arm in salute before vanishing completely from view.

“Help! Yrsarald! Ralof! An assassin! He was here in my room! Ah, gods, help us!”

Distantly Gerhild heard the stammering sobs as Nilsine yanked open the door and alerted their heretofore-oblivious personal guards to the danger the two women had faced alone. Actually, Gerhild had faced it alone due to Nilsine’s fainting, and it hadn’t been danger but a warning. Who would want to harm such an innocent young woman as Nilsine? There was no reason, no possible explanation as to how such a sweet and gentle woman had gained such a resourceful and vengeful enemy.

Wet drops were falling from her cheeks onto the sill. She looked down in consternation at what she thought were simply tears, but there were tiny drops of red mixed in, showing her that she was hurt more than she knew. She stayed leaning at the window, hoping the cold air would clear her head, as she attempted to take inventory of her hurts.

“Fuck! Gerhild! Gerhild, are you alright?” Hands were on her shoulders, pulling her gently away from the window and the still falling shards of glass. “Come away, Gerhild, it’s not safe. Look at me.” The hands turned her around, making her vision swim from the movement. “Fuck! How many fingers am I holding up?”

She felt nauseous; it wasn’t fair. Even though her vision was blurred, she could still tell the room was spinning. She didn’t attempt to focus on the digits, “Honestly, Ralof, can’t you count them? If you don’t know how many fingers you have, I can’t help you right now. I’m more concerned with keeping my dinner in my stomach.”

“At least this time you knew it was me and not that Argis fellow,” he answered, his but his voice held little relief. “The assassin? Where is he?”

“She Shouted him out the window,” Nilsine gasped. Gerhild winced when the woman wrapped her arms around her and began sobbing into her tender ears. “I saw it. She Shouted, and the glass burst, and the man was gone.”

“Nilsine,” she returned the embrace, “Calm down. It’s over. It’s all over. You’re safe, now.” Somehow she managed to find something soft to sit down on, or maybe Ralof had steered them towards the bed, but the two women were sitting down safely where the room didn’t spin quite so much.

“I’ve sent for the Jarl. Fuck! He’s gonna have our heads for this…” Yrsarald sounded on the verge of pissing himself.

Ralof pulled a face, his back bearing scars of just how vengeful his Jarl could be with those who committed dereliction of duty. “He needs to know; it’s not like this is something we could, or should, hide from him.” He went over to the window again, but could find no sign of a body that had been Shouted to its death. “Fuck…”

* * *

Vorstag stared at the guard, who was shaking in her boots, Ulfric’s Thu’um infused exclamation still echoing within the war room. The next moment the three men were moving as one, their thoughts all the same: reach the ladies. Vorstag was first to the door but stopped, having no idea where to find them. He assumed they were in Nilsine’s chambers, as Gerhild’s were at the other end of the palace, and he didn’t know where that might be. He quickly changed direction and made to hold the door open for the others, pretending that had been his intention from the start, and not racing ahead of Ulfric to find out for himself what had happened to Gerhild.

Who was it she worshiped? Stendarr—no, Stuhn, God of Ransom, let her be alive, he prayed in his heart.

The three men raced through the stairs and corridors, and Vorstag almost got turned around before they reached Nilsine’s chambers. A small group of guards were already gathered outside the door, Ralof calmly ordering a search of the palace grounds. He saw his Jarl approaching, and Vorstag could imagine what his face looked like—what his own faced looked like—as they charged down on the hapless Captain.

“My Jarl,” he saluted smartly. “Nilsine’s alright, but Gerhild was hurt…”

Ulfric, Vorstag and Galmar didn’t even pause as they finished their race, the guards parting away like a field of wheat before a strong wind. They crossed the threshold to find a room fairly undisturbed, other than a shattered window. The last of the glass had finally fallen, most of it landing outside. Yrsarald had managed to light several candles, though the hearth remained encased in ice. In the golden light, they could see the two women sitting on the bed, arms around each other, one unhurt and sobbing, the other bleeding freely from several cuts though oddly quiet.

“Ulfric…!” Nilsine wailed, letting go of the woman to seek solace within her husband’s arms. He caught her, and though he would much rather have Gerhild there, Nilsine was more demanding.

And Vorstag was taking her in hand, the damned mercenary!

“Gerhild? How are you feeling?” He knelt in front of her, a hand to either side of her face. There was a growing bruise on the side of her jaw right around the cut on her lip, and another bruise on her throat. His long fingers tenderly massaged her scalp, feeling for the most minuscule of bumps and dislodging several pieces of glass. He stopped and very carefully began picking out whatever shards remained, keeping the anguish out of his expression as he watched the growing streaks of red staining the gold locks.

“Oh, ‘lo.” Her words were slightly slurred. She blinked at him, “When’d you getter?”

“Just now,” Vorstag answered absently, his attention focused on her injuries. “What happened?”

“She Shouted…” Nilsine sobbed. “She Shouted him out the window. There was an assassin. He’d put out all the lights. And he was going to kill us. They fought, and she Shouted, and the window broke…”

“We couldn't hear anything out in the hallway, but came in as soon as Lady Nilsine opened the door,” Yrsarald supplied. “The assassin was already gone by that point. Lady Gerhild was at the window, leaning out, and there was still some glass in the panes. She didn’t seem to notice it falling on her and cutting her. Ralof pulled her away, and she complained about feeling sick to her stomach and not being able to see clearly. He had the two ladies sit on the bed while he began organizing a search party to find the assassin, and I stayed to keep an eye on them until you got here.”

Ulfric kept his arms around his wife, but his eyes were only for Gerhild. “Gerhild, cast a healing spell, damn it; you’re bleeding!”

She blinked in his direction, but whoever was standing there remained out of focus. “Oh, am I? I don’ feel hurt. ‘cept for m’ head. ‘at hurz.”

“Cast a healing spell,” Vorstag encouraged her, closer and much easier to see.

“Oh, right.” She looked down at her hands, holding them palms upwards, but there were no golden ribbons of Restoration Magic to spill between her fingers. Vorstag took hold of the outside of her hands, willing her to cast the spell, but she only stared at her empty hands and sighed, “‘at’s odd.”

“Gerhild,” he said softly, tilting his head until he broke her line of sight. She looked up at him and pulled one hand up to rub at her eyes. She missed, hitting the end of her nose, and had to slide up the slope to find her eyes.

“Vorstag. When d’you get here?”

“What’s wrong with her?” Ulfric demanded.

Vorstag took note of her watery eyes unable to focus. He ignored Ulfric for the time being and spoke with Yrsarald. “Has she complained about anything other than a headache? Any nausea? Has she lost her balance?”

“She said earlier that she was a little sick to her stomach, and she almost fell over once. Ralof made her sit on the bed with Nilsine.”

He nodded and looked back at her. “Gerhild, how many fingers am I holding up?”

Her brow furrowed as she groused, “Can’t you count ‘em? ’m havin’ trouble seein’. ‘n my head hurz. ‘n my ears’re ringing!” Her anger suddenly evaporated, and tears began filling her eyes. “Why ‘m I crying?”

“What. Is. Wrong.”

Vorstag finally answered Ulfric, his suspicions confirmed, having seen this happen once or twice in his line of work. “She has a concussion,” he answered, keeping his voice calm though inwardly he raged. “A fairly severe one.”

“Can’t she just heal it with a spell?”

He was shaking his head before Galmar was finished asking the question. “No, a concussion this severe will interfere with her abilities. It’ll make her sick to her stomach, dizzy, keep her from being able to concentrate, so she can't cast spells and stuff like that. We’ll have to keep her calm and quiet, and wait for her to come to her senses.”

“I’ll get a healing potion,” Yrsarald volunteered, looking for an excuse to get out of Ulfric’s sight. And mitigate his guilt in this fiasco.

“Gods, that’ll piss her off,” Vorstag mumbled, but Yrsarald was already racing out into the hallway.

“What do you mean?” Again it was Galmar who spoke, Ulfric too angry to trust himself to open his mouth. "Why would a healing potion piss her off? It'll help, won't it?"

“She explained it to me once,” he answered. “A healing potion only speeds up the body’s natural process of healing, where as magic heals with its own power. That’s why you scar with potions, but not with magic. And you know how Gerhild feels about her scars. I can imagine how pissed she’ll be, all these tiny cuts on her scalp and shoulders leaving behind scars.” He saw Ulfric’s face darken over the top of Nilsine’s head, and continued, “I know it looks like a lot of blood, but she’ll be fine. We just need to keep her still and quiet until she comes to her senses and is able to concentrate enough to use magic.”

Galmar had noticed the expression as well. “What if we give her just enough of the potion, to help her get her wits about her. Then she can finish with a spell.”

Vorstag shrugged. “No idea if that’ll work, but it’s worth a try.”

“Vorstag…?”

He turned back at Gerhild’s questioning voice. “Aye, I’m here. Just sit still, Gerhild; you’ll be fine.”

“There wassa assassin ‘ere. Did ‘e get away?”

“Don’t worry about him,” Vorstag soothed, trying to keep her calm, thinking she might grow alarmed at the memory of the assassin. “He’s gone now. You Shouted him out the window, remember?”

The tiny space between her eyebrows furrowed deeply, and her lower lip began to tremble. “I didn’ mean to.”

“Why is she upset?” Nilsine asked, calmer now that so many strong Nord men were around. “She’s acting like she’s sorry she killed him.”

“It’s fine,” Vorstag sighed, having to use a gigantic amount of willpower to keep himself under control. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying, that’s all. She’s just a little confused. Nothing unexpected. Gerhild, listen to me. Listen. Everything’s alright. I want you to sit here quietly. Can you do that? Good girl. Galmar,” his peaceful and soothing tone never changed as he switched whom he addressed, “Could you find a cloth and wet it down? There’s some blood running into her eye.”

“The dresser,” Nilsine directed, unwilling to leave Ulfric, “Top drawer on the right.”

That the crusty old General did as he was bid showed how deeply concerned he was for Gerhild. In less than a minute, Vorstag was holding a cool cloth to her head, pressing gently against a cut just above her hairline. She sighed and leaned in to his touch, closing her eyes and trusting him completely.

Yrsarald returned with a healing potion, a weak one, but it would do the job. Vorstag handed him the cloth while he unstoppered the bottle and brought the mouth to her lips. “Gerhild, I want you to drink this, alright?”

“What’s it?” she asked. She had sat quietly the whole time he held the cloth to her head, but now she seemed talkative again.

“A healing potion. Take a sip. That’s a good girl.”

Gerhild felt the liquid hit her mouth, and immediately her body tried to reject the potion. It was all she could do to swallow. “Ugh, that’s awful. Tastes like some sort of moldy fungus.”

“Aye, now take another sip, come on, there you go.” He held her by the back of her neck, pressed the bottle to her lips with his other hand, and tipped a little more of the potion into her mouth.

She tried. She honestly tried to swallow. But the taste was terrible, and her head hurt, and her stomach gave a flop and…

“Shit!” he hissed, barely managing to get out of the way before the potion, and a good amount of dinner, came back up. Gerhild leaned forward until her head was even with her knees, spilling even more sick onto the floor. She coughed, choked, coughed again, and finished with a spit. With that all-pervading calm, he restarted, “Alright, nothing to worry about. Not unexpected at all. Let’s try again, Gerhild. Can you sit up?”

“Aye,” she groaned, not wanting to but doing it anyway. She blinked and the face before her came into focus. “Vorstag? What are you doing in Nilsine’s room? Wait, the assassin…” She spun around, trying to find the window, and the room gave a funny sort of tilt.

“It’s over, Gerhild,” he replied for what seemed like the hundredth time as he pulled her face back towards him. “Everyone’s safe. Now, take a sip, for me, will you?”

“What is it?” she asked, trying to keep her mouth—and nose—away from the foul concoction.

“Just a healing potion,” he replied, still trying to tip the contents into her mouth.

“Why are you trying to get me to drink it?” she asked, her voice full of confusion. “I can cast a healing spell, ya know.”

He rocked back onto his heels, the bottle moving away with him. “Do you think you can?”

“What a stupid question. Of course I can.” She held her hand out, golden swirls of magic appearing within her cupped palm for a moment, only to be absorbed into her skin. The last of the fog cleared her head, and she lifted her face to look around at everyone. “Why are you all staring at me?”

She was met with various reactions. Vorstag groaned and stood up, walking away mumbling to himself. Nilsine gave a little sniff and smiled, hugging Ulfric with relief. Ulfric's face was red with anger but beginning to fade with his own relief. Yrsarald smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand and dragged it downwards. And Galmar roared with laughter. “Don’t you ever—ever!—scare us like that again, young lady,” Galmar shook his finger under her nose, but his smile remained firmly stuck to his lips.

“Like what again? What are you talking about? What is going on here? Nilsine… there was an assassin… the window…” She put her hand to her head, trying to remember. “Excuse me, but I seem to be a little confused right now.”

Ulfric spoke over the top of Nilsine’s head, as she was once more burrowed into his embrace. “Take your time, Gerhild, but when you think you’re up to it, would you mind telling us what in Oblivion happened!?”

She had just noticed the sick staining the front of her skirts. “What? Oh, ah, give me a moment.”

“We came in here, and the room was dark,” Nilsine prompted.

“Aye, I remember now. All the candles were extinguished, even the fire in the hearth was out. I’m sorry, Ulfric, I should have noticed it right away…”

“Don’t worry about that,” he waved her transgression aside, “Continue.”

“Um, we came in here, saw it was so dark, but I had already closed the door, and Nilsine was in the middle of the room. I knew something had to be wrong, so I told her to be quiet while I checked the room. I used a Shout, and saw there was only one other person in the room with us. I placed her between me and the wall and faced the person. I knew, if worse came to worse, I could always Shout at him. Then he introduced himself, claimed to be an assassin, and Nilsine fainted.”

“I’m sorry,” she said in a trembling voice, “I’m so sorry…”

Gerhild shook her head and waved her weakness aside. “There wasn’t anything you could have done, Nilsine. And you weren’t out for that long. He said someone wanted you dead, but before he could attack I threw a flame spell at the hearth. He countered with a frost spell. But I had seen exactly where he was standing, and…” she hesitated, remembering the dagger that fell from her throat, remembering recognizing him, remembering his warning. No, she couldn’t tell them everything. Her left eye twitched as she pulled her lip out from between her teeth and abbreviated the encounter, “We fought. We got turned around, and I couldn’t be sure anymore where Nilsine was, so I didn’t dare Shout in case he ducked and I hit her by accident,” she paused to touch her jaw. When she pulled her hand away, she stared at the sticky, half-dried blood staining her fingertips. “He must’ve gotten a lucky punch in. I sorta remember, we had ended up by the window, and he hit me in the jaw, and the room was spinning, and I… I guess I Shouted after all…” She turned to face the window, seeing how most of the glass had been shattered out, though some had fallen inside. “I really don’t remember anything after that, until just now when Vorstag was trying to get me to drink a healing potion.” She crossed her arms and huffed. “Really, you know I can heal myself. Why didn’t you have me do that from the beginning?”

“We tried,” Yrsarald answered.

“For a good half-hour or more,” Galmar added.

“You were awake the whole time,” Nilsine assured her. “Don’t you remember?”

Gerhild’s mouth went slack as she looked at them. “No, I don’t remember.”

“You had a severe concussion,” Vorstag explained from where he had finally collected himself. “It interfered with your memory, and your ability to use magic, and other stuff.” He gestured at her skirts, which were damp and smelling bad. She made a face, thinking only of getting up and away from the mess.

“Ugh. Well, I’m fine now, all healed and good as new.” She got to her feet, and Vorstag was back at her side and holding on to her elbow. She wobbled a little before gaining her balance, and though he let go he stayed beside her, just in case.

“Aye, and the two of you are safe and sound, despite your personal guards,” Ulfric’s deep voice growled dangerously.

“Oh, don’t blame them,” she dismissed his anger. “The door and walls are so thick, there was no way for them to know what was happening in here. Besides, I should have noticed something was amiss before we entered the room. But that’s the past. We were lucky tonight. We can’t expect to rely on luck the next time.”

“Next time?” Galmar questioned.

“Aye. Someone wants Nilsine dead. Someone resourceful and determined enough to perform the Black Sacrament and get the Dark Brotherhood involved. Just because this assassin failed, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t expect more.”

“You’re right,” Ulfric’s voice was still growling, his rage not having been spent yet. “Nilsine, you’ll stay in my room tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll put you…” his voice trailed away, as he couldn't think of where she would be safe.

“Give her my room,” Gerhild offered, ignorant of his consternation. “The windows don’t open, and they’re too narrow to squeeze through. Also, the doors are thinner, the hallways patrolled regularly, and it’s close to both you and Galmar. I’m sure you’re gonna want that, anyway, in the coming months.”

“What do you mean,” Galmar asked, “‘In the coming months’?”

“Don’t you…” She didn’t finish her question, as the answer was obvious in the confusion on his face. Instead she looked at Nilsine, who was still clinging to Ulfric. “You haven’t told him yet? Or… oh, gods, you don’t know yet, do you?” Her eyes widened and her hand slapped over her mouth, like she had just given away a secret.

“Know what?” Ulfric nearly spat. “Speak clearly, damn it, woman! There’s been enough stress and confusion tonight.”

She obediently nodded and took her hand away. “When I Shouted to see who was in the room, I used Laas Yah Nir. Are you familiar with that Shout?”

He nodded. “It can detect anything living or undead, even automatons…”

“Any sort of force with a will or intent, except a dragon,” she finished. “When I used it tonight, there was a strange sort of… double image around Nilsine. I walked around, checking to make sure I wasn’t seeing someone behind coming through her, but the extra life force stayed with her. Nilsine,” she dropped her deep violet eyes to the young woman, “Stuhn’s Shield, but this is not the way to tell you this.” She took a deep breath, looked her square in the eyes, and finished, “You’re with child.”

Those last three words were blunt, even when coming after an explanation.

Ulfric’s eyes widened, the anger and fear from the past hour falling away in the face of the news. “Are…” he stopped. He had been about to ask Gerhild if she was sure, a stupid question, as she wouldn’t have said anything if she wasn’t sure. He looked down at Nilsine, whose own face held an equal amount of astonishment. “Nilsine…?”

“I, well, I mean, I didn’t, I wasn’t sure, but I know I’m a few days late, and I didn’t want to say anything, because we’ve been trying so hard, and I was afraid of being wrong, and getting your hopes up, my hopes up, so I was going to wait…”

Her stammering ended in a squeal as Ulfric lifted her off her feet and spun her around and around. Gerhild watched, amazed, as tears of joy filled his eyes. Even Galmar had to grumble about a speck of dust in his eye.

“Come. You’ll stay with me tonight,” Ulfric was saying, ushering her out the room as he spoke. “And tomorrow we’ll settle you in your new room. And we’ll start getting everything in place for the babe. By the Nine,” he paused to give a tender chuckle, “I have no idea what we’ll need. Clothes? Blankets? Lots of blankets. This is the coldest city in Skyrim.”

“I’ll ask my mother; she’ll know what to get,” Nilsine said. “Besides, I think it’ll do her good, to know she has a grandchild on the way.”

Their voices faded down the hallway, the two clinging onto the good news as a lifeline, after such a harrowing evening.

“Ah,” Galmar sighed, his gruff voice sounding gentle, “That was good to see. They have been trying so hard. And rumors were starting to circulate… Well,” he stopped himself, realizing that Vorstag was still in the room with them, lending a steadying hand to Gerhild again. Yrsarald had left on the happy couple’s heels, still taking his escort job a bit too seriously after the night's near miss. “I imagine you’ll want to get cleaned up.”

“Aye,” she sighed, glancing down at her ruined dress. “I’ll move out of my room tonight, so it’ll be ready for her first thing in the morning. You don’t mind if I bunk with you for the night, do you, Vorstag?”

He shook his head, readily giving up his dream of having a little privacy tonight. He wasn’t really in the mood anymore anyway. And he didn’t like the glassy quality that stayed with her eyes, or the paleness of her skin. She had lost a bit of blood tonight, and even though she was healed, she could still be weak. He didn’t want to leave her alone, not if he wasn’t sure she would be alright.

“Fine, fine,” Galmar answered. “I imagine Ulfric’s gonna be distracted for the foreseeable future, so I’ll ask. Do you know when you’ll leave for Solstheim?”

She shook her head. “As soon as possible, but I have to wait for the Northern Maiden; she’s the only ship that sails there.”

“Huh, that ship’s due in a few days. Time enough, I think, for Ulfric to enjoy his success, before having to come back to reality. I know he’ll want to talk with you personally before you leave again.”

“I won’t leave until I speak with him; I promise. What happened to Ralof?”

“He’s leading the search for the assassin. If you Shouted him out the window, the body could have flown half-way to Morrowind before it landed.”

She looked at the window again, and a half-formed memory of a dark shadow silhouetted along a roofline came to mind. “Aye, I suppose Ralof will have trouble finding the body.”

“Aye, well, good night. Get some sleep, if you can. You’ve earned it.” He left the room, whistling some little tune that Gerhild thought might be a lullaby.

“By the Nine, what a night,” she sighed, sagging onto Vorstag’s arm now that they were alone. “Any idea what time it is?”

“Nope,” he shook his head, taking a firmer hold of her. He had been noticing those little signs that said she wasn’t quite over her ordeal. He’d sweep her off her feet and carry her, if he didn’t know she’d put up a fuss. “Other than late.”

“Late, aye,” she sighed, “It’s late. Let’s go to bed.”

Ah, Merciful Mara, how he would love to do just that. Maybe he would regret giving up his privacy, before the night was through. He remained silent, guiding her through the maze of corridors, up and down flights of stairs, until they reached his room.

“Er, would you wanna get cleaned up before bed? I could leave you at the baths, and move your things into my room while you’re washing your hair and stuff.”

Her hand reached up to touch her hair, feeling the sticky mess. “Actually, I’m too tired. I might fall asleep in the water, and that would be bad. I’d rather just dunk my head in a bucket.”

He nodded, pushing open his door and ushering her inside. He made to have her sit on the bed, but she refused. “Nope, not until I’m outta this dress. Stuhn’s Shield, I’m a mess!”

She reached behind and began to untie the laces, but her fingers were fumbling and getting tangled in her hair.

“Here,” he said, coming up behind her, his long, warm fingers stilling hers, “Let me.” Her hands willingly fell away to dangle at her sides. Vorstag started by moving her hair out of the way, his fingertips brushing the sensitive skin of her neck as he gathered the wavy locks and draped them over one shoulder. He undid the knot holding the stays closed, and loosened the laces so she would be able to wiggle out of the dress on her own. “I should probably go and get your things while you clean up.”

She didn’t notice the husky quality to his voice, her mind too full of the night’s events, trying to remember exactly what happened after she Shouted. “Vorstag…”

Damn. He had almost made the door. He turned, feeling like a man facing the gallows. She was standing as he had left her, only now her hands were on her arms, like she was hugging herself. “I’m trying to remember, but I can’t. What happened? After I Shouted out the window, I mean. How did I get so…” she stopped, unable to find a word to describe her current state.

“Ralof and Yrsarald found you leaning out the window, apparently to see where the assassin’s body landed. There were still some shards of glass in the pane, and they fell on you. The cuts weren’t deep, but head wounds bleed a lot, so they looked worse than they were.”

She nodded, “And the sick?”

“You were suffering from a severe concussion,” somehow his feet had brought him back to her, and he found himself placing his hands over hers. “And you weren’t able to cast a healing spell. I tried to get you to drink a healing potion, just enough to clear your head so you could finish healing with magic. It came back up on you.”

Again she nodded, her lower lip firmly glued between her teeth.

He resisted the urge to pull her lip free, and tried to make a break for the door again. “Get cleaned up. I’ll pack your things and bring them here.”

He got a little further this time, the door partway open, before she stopped him.

“Did the assassin die? Do you know? For certain?”

He turned to face her. She was looking over her shoulder at him, her face pale and her eyes full of tears. He firmly closed the door. Something else was going on here, and he realized he couldn’t leave her alone, not quite yet. “Gerhild, what is it? What aren’t you telling me?”

She guiltily pulled her eyes away, dropping her face to the floor. “You see through me too easily. Why can’t I keep things from you?”

Because you love me, he thought to himself, but he couldn’t say it out loud. She had to realize it on her own. “Whatever the reason, you can’t, so spill it. What happened that you haven’t told us?”

“I… I know him…” she whispered.

“You know who?”

“The assassin.” She lifted her face, her eyes eagerly searching his. “Please, Vorstag, promise you won’t tell anyone. No harm was done, not really. And Nilsine was warned, that’s what he wanted to do, warn her, not kill her. So don’t tell them, please, promise me, please…”

“Shh,” he put his fingertips against her bow-shaped lips, silencing them. She was close to hysterics again, no doubt due to her concussion and the stress of the night. “I promise,” he soothed her, “I won’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Now, tell me. Start at the beginning.”

“His name is Aventus,” she began, Vorstag steering her towards the chair beside the table. She told him how she had met Aventus, caught him performing the Black Sacrament, and gave him the idea of taking care of Grelod the Kind himself. She left nothing out, not even the enchanted dagger or her removing his veil and seeing his face, confirming his identity. Vorstag listened to all of it, humming encouragement whenever she faltered, letting her words tumble down into the space between them, pulling her guilt from her soul.

Vorstag hadn’t been idle while she talked, taking the opportunity to wipe what he could out of her hair with a wet towel. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do for the night. In the morning, when she was feeling better, she’d no doubt want that bath, but at least she wouldn’t stain the sheets tonight. He took a fresh towel and was starting on her face as her tale drew to a close.

“I created him, Vorstag. Gods forgive me, but I turned an orphaned child into a cold-blooded killer!”

“No, you didn’t,” he argued calmly, wiping a tear away with some caked blood.

“Aye, I did,” she almost snapped at him. “I gave him the idea and the means to do it.”

He rubbed at the blood in the corner of her mouth, slurring her words. “No, you didn’t. He already had the idea, or he wouldn’t have been performing the Black Sacrament. And a dagger or other weapon he could have picked up anywhere, even off of this Grelod woman. You actually did him a favor, giving him such a useful weapon. It saved your life tonight. Actually,” he reconsidered as he wiped at her neck, “It saved his life. If he had hurt you, you would have Shouted at him. By using your old dagger against you, he proved he was your friend and meant you no harm.

“As for being cold-blooded,” he continued, “I don’t think Aventus is. Cold-blooded. You said he told you that Nilsine wasn’t the main target of the contract, she was just a bonus. I don’t think very many assassins would have cared whether or not she was innocent or your friend; they would’ve wanted the bonus and to Oblivion with the consequences. But he spared her. No, he did more than that; he warned her. Now she knows someone wants her dead, and there could be others sent to kill her. Ulfric and Galmar will keep her safe, now, thanks to Aventus’ warning, and thanks to you.”

He was wiping at the blood that had dripped down her front. There wasn’t much, thankfully, but his fingers trembled a little as he brought the soft cloth over the top of one breast. He could imagine going further, dipping beneath the hem of her gown, and pulling the pale mound free of the loosened bodice. He visualized the size of it, how comfortably it would fit in his hand, how heavy and full it would weigh, how the nipple would harden between the sides of his fingers. He suddenly heard her silence, and with a guilty blush he brought his soft brown eyes up to meet her deep violet eyes. He wondered briefly if there was a Shout for reading someone’s mind.

“I… ah… I’ll just go and get your things, let you finish this up yourself.”

She nodded, her bow-shaped lips parted slightly, a tiny crease between her eyebrows. A hand numbly took the towel from him before falling back to her lap. He stood, cleared his throat quietly, and said, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Vorstag…” her call stopped him before he had gone three steps.

“Aye.”

“Could I borrow I tunic to wear tonight?” she asked, her voice timid. “I… I just… I feel so cold…” She watched him turn to look at her, a strange expression on his face. “I normally wouldn’t mind sleeping nude, but not tonight. Please, could I borrow something? Just… just to feel… warmth?”

He thought about telling her to wait, and he’d be back with her own things. But she looked so lost, and was so tired, he figured she might actually be asleep before he returned. Whether that would be a mercy or a punishment he refused to consider. He nodded, and walked over to the wardrobe his pack was propped against. He squatted on the floor, rummaging through the knapsack until he found a clean tunic. He stood up to find her beside him, having approached on silent feet. She slipped the dress off her shoulders before taking the tan-colored tunic from his hands. “Thank you.”

He froze. She stepped completely out of the dress before pulling the tunic on, her head popping out of the neck before her arms found the sleeves. He forced himself to remain staring at her face, refusing to goggle at her body, though his peripheral vision was damnably accurate—those breasts would fit perfectly in his hands. Then she did a singularly strange and wondrous thing; she kissed him. She reached up on her toes and planted a chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth.

That strange expression seemed to have permanently molded itself onto his face. “I… you… I need to… you should… things and sleep…” she listened to him stammer. She watched in fascination as he struggled to get himself under control, taking a deep breath and running a hand through his shoulder-length hair. He pulled his gaze away and stared at the wall before he could say clearly, “You should get some sleep, if you can. I’ll get your things. I’ll be back as soon as I can, but don’t wait up for me.” He all but raced out the door, not even waiting to hear her acknowledgement.

She puzzled over his abrupt departure, wondering what could be wrong. He hadn’t even batted an eye over her revelation that she had known the assassin, so that couldn’t be it. But it was right after that, that he started acting weird. She pondered it as she crawled into his bed, burrowing beneath the covers, shivering while she waited for her body to warm up the bedclothes. He had been listening to her, wiping the mess off her body…

Stuhn’s Shield, how fucking dumb could she be!? She knew what was bothering him. It all made perfect sense now. He had started acting strange while cleaning her chest, her dress loosened so far that her breasts were nearly falling out. And he tried to leave, but she had asked for the tunic, and mentioned sleeping in the nude. Gods, that had been dumb. Then she stripped right there in front of him, gave him a full view of… everything… and even kissed him. Sure, the kiss had been chaste and didn’t mean anything more than a thank you for being so kind and understanding. But she knew it made him feel uncomfortable, seeing a woman’s body, and she had practically cornered him and flaunted her naked figure smack dab in the middle of his face!

She punched the unoffending pillow in frustration.

It didn’t bother her in the slightest, being naked around him, because she knew he would never be interested in her. But it bothered him, because he didn’t find the sight of a female body appealing; in fact, he probably found it off-putting. She knew that, but her brain simply wasn’t working right tonight. She should apologize, as soon as he came back, but she also knew he was uncomfortable talking about it—about his preferences—so that would just make matters worse. No, she’d have to find some other way to make it up to him, maybe do something nice for him, some little gesture to let him know she was sorry without saying it so they could both pretend they weren’t talking about it…

Her head was swimming, trying to figure out how to get out of this mess, so she decided to put it off until she could think clearly. She curled up on her side, tucking her knees to her chest and pulling the hem of the tunic down to her ankles. She felt a little warmer, and a lot more comfortable, and the tunic smelled of Vorstag and juniper. After a few moments, she drifted off to sleep, long before he returned with her things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, come on, you saw this coming with Aventus, right? I have to admit it was fun to write, even if it might have been a wee bit predictable. *sigh* And, okay, I’ll admit it, there was a little Assassins Creed in there, just for kicks, including the title of the chapter. I so wanted to write Aventus doing a leap of faith off that last rooftop and landing in a pile of hay, but thought that would be pushing it too far. :’D  
> Did I redeem Ulfric in your eyes, just a little? No, huh? Nah, don't worry about it. He's still a bastard; just wait. ;D  
> Right, so, next chappie we’re on to Solstheim to see what sort of predicaments I can get our two fools into over there! *rubs hands together and cackles gleefully*


	11. Black Pits and Blacker Books

13th of Evening Star: 4E 203

“Whose idea was it to drop down into this pit?” Vorstag asked, his voice echoing in the cavernous area as he paced up and down the steps between the water and the locked door. He was tired and frustrated and raging at the stupidity of the trap they were in.

Gerhild sat calmly on the edge of a landing to the side of the steps, leafing through the pages of a journal. They had found the book, bloodstained and moldy, near some gruesome bits of what appeared to have been a person. All that remained were bones torn apart and strewn about the place, but whatever had fed on them had long since succumbed to death as well. "Mine," she admitted, more interested in the book than his frustration. Truthfully, she felt it, too, but there was nothing obvious they could do to change matters, and wasting energy on useless rage would do neither of them any good. "I asked; you didn't have any objections…"

“I’ve got them now!” he groused.

“Aye, hindsight is funny that way.”

He stopped pacing near the door, looking at her over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed into slits, mimicking the rectangular openings in his helmet. “Are you trying to be funny?”

She sighed and looked up from the book. “No, I’m trying to find a way out of here. And pacing back and forth between the door and the water isn’t going to do it,” she criticized his actions.

"Neither is sitting on your ass with your nose in some moldy old book!" he fired back, jumping off the steps onto the ground and stalking up to her. The landing wasn't too far off the ground, but even sitting down she was slightly above his eye level. "We should be finding a way to climb out of here. Or break through that door. If we just sit around, we'll end up starving to death like he did!" he gestured to the bones.

They faced each other for a moment, his thin lips pressed into an even thinner line, her deep violet eyes cold like the grave. “What’s wrong?” she asked, beginning to suspect there might be something serious going on.

“We’re stuck at the bottom of a dried-out ebony mine. No one knows where we are. No one will come looking for us. And you’re asking what’s wrong?” He threw his hands up in exasperation, his feet pounding the ground as he forced himself to walk away from her before he strangled her to death. Gods, but that woman could frustrate him to no end!

Gerhild watched him closely, never having seen him act this way before. “Vorstag, we’ve been in tight situations before…”

“Not like this,” he growled, refusing to look at her. He clenched and unclenched his fists, his body nearly thrumming with tension. There was something wrong, very wrong, and she needed to get to the bottom of it if they were going to have any chance of escaping.

“You haven’t had any problem with tombs before, or with being underground. In fact, you love exploring every cave we come across…”

“It’s not… I don’t… argh!”

One gauntleted fist backhanded into the stones next to him, the stalhrim armor protecting him from injury. She had given him the armor upon their arrival in Raven Rock, as a sort of apology and thank you for all the shit he put up with while adventuring with her. Besides, the pieces had been too large to fit her lithe frame, and were sitting around in her house in Raven Rock collecting dust. She had the town’s blacksmith, Glover, adjust the pieces so they fit him perfectly. Vorstag cherished the armor, babied it and almost protected it more than it protected him. For him to smack it so forcefully for no apparent reason gave her great cause for concern.

Gerhild set aside the book, hopped off the ledge and approached him where he stood at the water’s edge, staring at where the water disappeared into the darkness. There was a small campfire back by the door, and the light it gave was minimal at best, but it shone enough to cast her shadow before her, giving him ample warning that she was coming up to him. She set a hand on his shoulder, but he only shook his head for an answer.

Undeterred, she pressed up against his back, wrapping her arms around his stomach, leaning her cheek against his cuirass. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the best she could do to offer comfort. She couldn’t read his body language through his armor, those tiny tells like a racing heartbeat or a shuddering breath, but after a moment he put his hands over hers. She squeezed his fingers, and his returning squeeze nearly broke her fingers.

“Talk to me,” she breathed, keeping the pain out of her voice.

“I… I can’t… put it into words…” he stammered. His voice was choked, like he was on the verge of tears. He gasped a lungful of air, his chest expanding and stretching her arms. “We’re… we’re trapped in here… no way back… no way forwards… we can’t get out… like Cidhna Mine…”

She closed her eyes, remembering what he had gone through in that place. No, it wasn't being underground or inside a cave that he found upsetting; it was being inside a mine. Getting themselves trapped without a possibility of escape only served to heighten his fear and apprehension.  Well, there was a way for her to alleviate that. "Hey, you're forgetting one thing."

“What?” Well, his tone was a little less surly; at least he was willing to listen to her.

“You’re standing next to the only person who has ever escaped the inescapable Cidhna Mine, the most secure prison in Skyrim.”

He barked a sound, something like laughter, but not quite. “You had help then, remember? Madanach had an escape route already planned…”

“Aye,” she admitted, at last able to pull her hands free. She kept in contact with him, however, as she stepped around to his side and caught his eye. “And I have help, now. We’ll get out of here, Vorstag. I promise.” She put her hands on his cheeks, slipping just inside his helmet, and made him face her, “And you know, I keep my promises.”

He swallowed, his hands gripping her wrists, fearful that she would pull away. She had no intention of doing so, not until he calmed down. “There’s a door,” she continued calmly, “And a door is meant to be opened. It can be locked, or have a hidden latch, but every door opens and closes; it’s what doors do. We will open the door.”

He wanted to believe her, she could see it in his eyes, but there was doubt there, too. “He didn’t,” he nodded towards the skeleton.

“He couldn’t,” she answered, “Because he was hurt and dying. Those are the remains of Gratian Caerellius, Crescius’ great-grandfather…”

“The guy we were supposed to find?”

“Aye,” she kept her voice calm, willing him to trust her and not panic just because they found his body torn to shreds and eaten down to the marrow. “It’s his journal I’ve been reading. Slow going, the conditions down here haven’t been good for the parchment, but it is decipherable. He and his assistant, Millius, were attacked by Draugr the moment they removed the blade from the pedestal. They defeated the Draugr, but Millius was killed and Gratian was severely wounded, and his injuries wouldn’t heal. He spent his final days studying the door, trying to solve the puzzle, writing down all his theories in that journal, so that anyone coming after him—like we did—would be that much closer to getting through the door.”

He looked past her towards the door, the strange carvings seeming to glow red in the dim light. He squinted his eyes as he studied the marks, but they didn’t look anything like the letters he had been learning to read and write. “You said…” he stopped to lick his lips, “You said it all started when he took the blade off the pedestal. Well,” he looked at the greatsword strapped to his back, the metal marred with glowing red waves. She hadn’t objected when Vorstag claimed it, still preferring her war axe above all other weapons. So he had taken it and secured it on his back, keeping his dwarven sword on his hip. “Fine, what’ll happen if we just put it back on the pedestal?”

She blinked at him, “I don’t think…”

But he was already moving away from her, drawing the greatsword as he walked. He got to the pedestal and almost rammed the sword down, hilt first. Nothing happened. He did it again, striking it hard. Still nothing. He pushed it down, leaning as much of his weight onto it as he could. “We don’t want the damn thing!” he shouted, though he couldn’t have said to whom he was shouting. “Take it and let us out!”

Fuck, thought Gerhild, he’s losing it. He’s going into some sort of panic attack.

Vorstag was beating against the pedestal now, the blade enchanted and strong and chipping away at the stone without taking a scratch. Still she feared what sort of damage he could do to the sword, or what sort of damage it could do to him. She raced up and tried to pull him away, but he only snarled at her and shoved her, sending her tumbling back down the stairs. Then he gave up on the pedestal and decided to attack the door. “Open!” he cried, swinging the blade, sparks flying whenever he struck the stonework. He did no damage whatsoever to either the door or the sword, and he grew even more frustrated. “OPEN!”

He stepped back to give himself enough room and did a more powerful attack, a move he had learned as a young sellsword, swinging the greatsword all the way around his body and building up momentum before unleashing all his rage and frustration in a mighty blow and bellow, “Weergh!” Had a mammoth been standing before him, he probably could have decapitated it with that single slice. As things stood, he continued to be ineffectual in harming the door.

He wasn’t ineffectual in using the sword, however. Gerhild had just lifted her head up far enough to see the wave of energy come pouring out of the end of the greatsword, slicing through the air in the same arc as he had swung at the door. It struck the stonework, for a moment pulsing on the surface, before being absorbed into the frame. “Vorstag!”

He didn’t hear her at first. He was down on his knees, the sword lying in the dirt before him, his head bowed. He was very still, almost too still, and she feared for him. If he had hurt himself trying something so stupid, she’d never forgive him. Her hand began to fill with healing magic as she sprinted to his side. “Vorstag!”

His name turned into a sob of relief as she saw that he was unharmed. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his eyes staring at the ground, his hands hanging limply at his sides. “I don’t know what came over me.”

She wanted to laugh. “A stroke of genius, that’s what came over you.”

He shook his head. “I… I panicked… I was a fool… attacking a door with a sword…”

“Vorstag,” she repeated, but he turned his face away. “Vorstag, look at the door. At where your attack landed. Look!” She finally got him to lift his gaze. He did as she commanded, but shook his head almost immediately.

“I… I don’t see…”

Gerhild did, and she was going to make him see it. “Here, the line is faint,” she admitted, remembering that her eyes were sharper than most. She got up and kicked at their small campfire, plunging the area into darkness. A soft sort of whimper came out of the shadows, like a lost puppy, but she ignored his fear for the moment. “Look at the doorframe. Do you see it now? The red line? It’s moved. It used to be horizontal, near the ground, like the one on the other side,” she touched his shoulder and pointed, her hand right in front of his face so he could see it. “Now it’s higher up on the wall, at a different angle. You did that, Vorstag. You did that with… whatever that move was. Some sort of energy came out of the end of the sword, and struck the wall right where that line was, and it moved.”

“It… I never saw that there… it’s so dim… I did that?”

“Aye,” she encouraged him, “Do it again. To the other line. See if you can get it to move, too.”

He shook his head, his mind numb. “I don’t see how that’ll help…”

“It was in Gratian’s journal,” she explained. “He saw those red lines, and he’d been able to get the sword to do something—I couldn’t quite decipher what he wrote—that looked like it was supposed to be used on those lines, but his wounds were too great and he lost the strength to manage it. You did it, Vorstag. You got the sword to work.” She stepped back, giving him a little space, staring at him and willing him to put aside his fear and act. “Use it on the other mark.”

He knelt for another moment longer, his head turning from side to side. His eyes were adjusted to the dimness, the red marks clearly visible now that they didn’t have to compete with a fire. “I see them,” he repeated. His eyes fell to the greatsword, glowing a brighter red. His hands reached out to grab the hilt, and then he stood up. “Alright,” he swallowed, heaving the sword up off the ground. Exhausting himself slinging the greatsword around was better than doing nothing. “Stand back. I’m not sure where you are in the darkness, and I don’t wanna hit you by accident.”

“I’ll take care of myself,” she answered, already slipping on her hood and helmet before reaching for her gauntlets. “You take care of the door.” She grabbed the journal and stuffed it into her pack, along with the other personal items they’d found. Then she grabbed both their packs by the straps in one hand, and pulled out her Skyforge steel war axe in her other hand. “Whenever you’re ready.”

He could barely make her out, fully dressed again in her steel plate armor, acting like the door was about to open. Well, if she was so confident, maybe it would work. The line had moved, or so she said… No! She wouldn’t lie to him. He trusted her. If Gerhild said the line moved when he attacked it, then it moved. He looked at the line on the other side of the door, took careful aim, and performed the power move again.

He saw it this time, the ribbon of energy, flying from the tip of the sword to strike against the stonework. It wasn’t exactly on the line, but it was close enough, the red energy fading into the red mark. The mark moved, sliding further up the frame of the door, tilting to a new angle, exactly like the mark opposite.

Gerhild smiled within her helmet and hood, pleased with herself. She had gotten Vorstag over his panic attack, and managed to find a way through the door. Well, alright, so Vorstag found the way through, but she still had to be there to point him in the right direction. He swung over and over, changing the angle of his attacks to match the angle and position of the red lines, marching them upwards around the curved frame of the door, until they became a single line at the very top. He paused for a few moments to catch his breath, the attack exhausting and the greatsword heavy, before delivering that final blow.

Nothing happened.

“Fuck!” he panted, wanting to drop to his knees again and cry. The next moment, the stones gave a shudder, the vibrations felt through the ground beneath their feet. Dust and sand began falling like gentle rain from around the door and the ceiling. The door parted down the center, pulling back to the sides like a parting curtain. Vorstag didn’t wait, overjoyed that they were finally able to move on, and raced ahead into the hallway, a slightly maniacal laugh floating away with him.

“Wait!” she called, struggling up the steps after him. Before she reached the landing, she heard him cry out in pain.

“Weergh!”

She sprinted again, the only thought in her mind to find Vorstag, to find whatever danger he had come across, to destroy that danger and save him. In her haste, she nearly fell for the same trap he did, only the wind passing through the fabric of her hood warned her of the danger in time. She dropped to the ground just as the blade swung back towards her.

And landed on top of Vorstag. He was lying on his side, not moving, and she feared the worst. Already her hand was filling with Restoration Magic as she gripped his armor and lugged him back from danger. Tears filled her eyes as her chest tightened, that lingering indigestion returning in full force. She didn’t take the time to ponder why it returned at just that moment, the glowing magic in her hand giving her enough light to reveal the bruise forming on the side of his face. His helmet had protected him from being sliced by the blade, but the force of the blow had knocked him senseless. She tipped her hand and set it against his cheek, feeling the stubble of his beard scratch the palm of her hand.

Another moment, and his eyes fluttered open. “Huh? Oh! Gerhild. What happened?”

She nearly sobbed with relief, thankful that her hood hid her tears from his view. “You opened the door and ran headlong into a trap.”

“Trap?” his voice sounded small and bewildered in the darkened hallway.

She didn’t answer, other than to lean back and cast a flame spell at one of the braziers lining the corridor. He sat up to look, and gasped when he saw what came into view. There were three razor-sharp blades in a row, swinging on pendulums from side to side, hanging at just the right height to slice through a man’s torso. That he hadn’t been killed was a miracle, but that wasn’t the first thought in his addled brains. “My armor. Is it damaged?” Hastily he pulled off his helmet to look.

Gerhild laughed. She couldn’t help it. Relief swept through her like the blades sweeping through the air. “Stuhn’s Shield, you nearly get your head lopped off, and all you are concerned with is whether or not your armor got scratched!”

“I like this armor,” his thin lips pouted, his brown eyes turning softer as his eyebrows curved in a hurt manner. “You gave me it as a present. It means a lot to me.”

“Aye,” she sighed, sounding like a mother indulging her favorite son. “Well, the armor’s whole, and you’re whole, now let’s do what we can to keep them whole, shall we?”

He smiled sheepishly, his cheeks turning a little pink. He nodded and settled the helmet back on his head. “You lead. I’ll follow.”

She gave him a look like she didn’t quite believe him, but the expression was lost beneath her armor, so she let the matter drop. She stood up and offered him a hand, which he took, and they gathered up their discarded packs and weapons.

“So, how do we tackle this?” he asked, looking at the swinging blades.

“Not sure,” she admitted. “It all depends on how many blades there are.”

“Just the three,” he gestured at the blades that hadn’t yet shown any sign of slowing down. He watched her helmeted face turn towards him, and wondered what he had said wrong this time. At that point he didn’t really care; he just wanted to get going! Feeling the panic trying to resurface, he took a calming breath and waited for her to respond. She lifted a hand, invoked another flame spell, and lit another brazier further down the hallway. Then another. And another.

Vorstag cursed. There seemed to be countless groups of swinging blades, in sets of three, spaced every few yards down the corridor, the end lost to sight around a slight curve. “Fine. Now what?”

“Don’t talk like that,” she chided him, “You sound like Argis. Do what I do, alright? When I tell you to do it. Timing will be everything.”

“What are you—we going to do?” he asked suspiciously.

“Roll through the traps. Watch me. Take a few steps, drop down and tuck yourself into as small of a ball as possible, and roll through the corner on this side of the corridor while the blades are swinging over to that side.”

He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “Aye, well, ladies first.”

She flashed him a smile, realized he couldn’t see it, and added a smack to his shoulder. “It’ll be easy. A lot easier than swinging that sword at the door. And I’ll tell you when to go. Ready?”

She didn’t wait for an answer, but turned and propelled herself forward, tucking into a ball and rolling while the blades swung away. She came to rest a few feet on the other side of the blades, squatting on her heels, and looked back towards him. “Just like that. Ready? One… two… three… go!”

Fuck, he thought to himself. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck… He tucked his body into as small of a ball as possible and rolled forwards. Blades didn't slice into his body, and her hands were there to catch him.

“See? Easy.”

Inwardly he cursed her parentage, but outwardly he agreed in a weak voice, “Aye, easy. Let’s keep going; I wanna get this over with as soon as possible.”

He lost track of the number of blade traps they had to roll through, but by the time they reached the door at the end of the hall, he was feeling more than a little dizzy and nauseous. He looked up at the wooden barrier, one hand already on the greatsword in preparation for drawing it before his brain finally managed to make his body understand it was just an ordinary iron gate, there’d be no need for the blade. “Thank the Nine!”

She looked at him and waited until he got his balance before she stood up. “There’s a lever here. It’s either for the blades, or the door. Should I pull it?”

“Pull away,” he grunted, gaining his feet. “I’m ready for anything, as long as we can keep moving forward.”

She gave his arm another slap, and he gave her a tight smile. Then she turned and pulled the lever. As she expected, it had no effect on the traps behind them, but it did lift the iron gate. “Onwards,” she murmured, stepping over the threshold first.

The next chamber was large, looking like a typical Nordic tomb with the strange arches and open-mouthed statues spaced around the cavern. There were steps leading down into what looked like a shallow pool, only a few feet deep. But it was the platform to the side that caught Gerhild’s attention, a single chest sitting invitingly near the edge of the dais.

Vorstag saw a little more of the room, not being distracted by the chest, and noted a few things that—for once—her sharper gaze hadn’t seen. “No, wait, Gerhild!” he cried, reaching out for her but she was already gone, hastening to the chest. He had seen the coffin in the center of the pool, the water just deep enough to submerge the lid, and having gone through enough tombs with her he knew what would rise out of that thing. He let her go and drew the greatsword, determined to distract the Draugr Deathlord before it could strike her down.

Just as she approached the chest, a rune on the ground triggered. She jumped back in time, but the noise had alerted what lay within the coffin, which she only now took notice of, and the lid flew into the air. She cursed as she watched the phantom float up from the stone sarcophagus, a high pitched shriek renting the air, realizing before Vorstag did that this wasn’t an ordinary Draugr Deathlord, but a Dragon Priest. Vorstag was undeterred by the change in enemy, however, just as determined as ever to protect Gerhild. He swung the greatsword, the energy flying through the air to hit the Dragon Priest squarely in the chest, but it wasn’t enough to kill it. The Dragon Priest laughed hollowly, spoke in ancient Nordic, and cast a lightning spell at him.

“Vorstag!” she cried. In the back of her mind, she wondered why her voice hadn’t gone hoarse with all the extra shouting she’d done that day. In horror she watched as his body went completely rigid, the electricity intensified between the spell and the knee deep water he was standing in.

_“Fus Ro Dah!”_

She hadn’t thought, she hadn’t planned, she had reacted, Shouting as she leaped over the chest to land in the water by his side. As soon as her Thu’um hit the Dragon Priest, the lightning spell ended, the Priest spinning away under the force. Without the electricity there to hold his muscles rigid, Vorstag’s body began to fall backwards. She caught him, sort of, and dragged him by his armpits back to the steps and out of the water. She cast a quick healing spell, hoping it was enough, and left him out of the water as she waded back in. The Priest had recovered his equilibrium and was floating towards her again.

This time the spell was cast at her, but she was more able to defend herself. _“Feim Zii Gron,”_ she Shouted again, her body and armor all becoming faded and indistinct, like a shadow or a shade. The Priest didn’t seem to notice the change, continuing to cast his spell at her, draining his strength as the bolts of energy passed harmlessly through her to dissipate across the water.

Then a red line of energy hit him again, knocking him sideways and ending the spell. Gerhild looked to see Vorstag, standing on the platform near the chest, his chest heaving as he struggled to find the strength to swing the sword for the umpteenth time that day. She smiled widely, again the expression lost within her helmet, and threw a flame spell at the Priest to hold his attention. Her form returned to solid as soon as she did so, but it didn’t matter. Another ribbon of red from Vorstag, and the fight was over. The Dragon Priest gave a final screeching howl and disintegrated into a wet pile of ash beneath the water.

Gerhild left it for now, yanking off her helmet and racing back to the steps. She reached the landing as Vorstag sagged against the chest, the greatsword lying at his side, his chest heaving with each breath. She held out her hand, having thrown her gauntlets off somewhere along the way, but he waved the offer aside. “I’m alright,” he panted, “Just exhausted.”

She let go of the healing spell, not needing it herself either, but still settled on her knees beside him. Then she leaned forwards and kissed him.

It was a thoughtless act. It was an impulse. It was a mistake. She saw his eyes widen, and realized her own felt just as wide. Quickly she pulled away, her mouth still open in shock. “I… I… didn’t… I mean… I… was just so relieved… that you were alright…” Now her chest was heaving, but for different reasons.

Gods, what a day it had been. Vorstag shook his head and gave her his most charming smile, soothing over the awkward moment. “No harm done.”

She laughed again, like she had earlier when he’d been so concerned over scratching his armor. That thought triggered another, and he suddenly looked alarmed. “My armor! He didn’t singe it, did he?” He made a great show of being concerned for his armor, twisting around into contorted positions as he tried to see past his helmet. He overacted his pout, not sure if she could see through his act, but deciding it didn’t matter anyway. Just so long as she continued to laugh. “I’ll be very pissed off at that Draugr Deathlord if he so much as scratched it…”

“Vorstag!” she gasped, trying to catch her breath, but the laughter kept coming out. She punched his arm, and then doubled over, her hands around her stomach, as she tried to stop. It took her longer than she wanted, but at last she was able to sit back up, though the damnable smile remained in place. “That wasn’t a Deathlord. That was a fucking Dragon Priest.” She shook her head, pulling away from him and standing up. “And you’re still worried about your armor…”

He smiled too, but behind her back. At least he made her think she had gotten away with the kiss. He took one last deep breath before struggling to his feet. On impulse he peeked inside the chest, stifling the groan when he found nothing but two small gold septims. He pocketed them and sheathed the greatsword, following her back down towards the water. “Don’t know about you, but I’m ready to get out of here, find someplace warm and dry with a stiff drink in one hand and a hot meal in the other.” He found his pack where he had dropped it and slung it over one shoulder.

Gerhild was ahead of him, her gauntlets back on but her helmet tucked into the crook of her arm. “Not yet,” she said in a quiet voice, as if she was listening to something that she didn’t want to talk over. He listened, too, but couldn’t hear whatever she was hearing. He trudged after her as quietly as he could in the knee-deep water, and eventually saw what was attracting her attention.

A word wall filled the back of the chamber. He’d seen them before, and seen Gerhild learn Thu’ums from them, so he left her to her study. It wasn’t like he could help her. Besides, he had just stepped into the soggy ashes of the Dragon Priest. Curious, he knelt down and sifted through the clammy mess.

A few moments later and she was back at his side, acting as if nothing had happened. “What did you learn?”

“Huh?” she knelt down next to him. “Oh, Diiv. Mul Qah Diiv, actually. It’s a Shout that gives me… ah, well… it increases my powers as a Dragonborn.”

He looked at her a moment, blinked, and tilted his head. “You mean, a Shout that makes your Shouts stronger.”

“Among other things, like increasing my magic spells, or the strength of my armor, or the power I can put behind my swing when wielding a weapon. It’s useful. What did you find?”

“The Dragon Priest’s ashes,” he admitted, making a face, “And this.” He lifted a mask up from the refuse, water dripping off of it as he held it at arm’s length. She took it from his fingers, and he relinquished his hold readily. She looked at it closely for a moment before bringing it near her face as if she was going to put it on. “Don’t do that!”

“It’s alright,” she said, “The Dragon Priest is destroyed. All that remains is this mask. Zahkriisos.”

“What’s Zahkriisos?”

“That was his name,” she said, pulling the mask away to stuff into her pack. She stood up and put her helmet back on. “Come on, let’s check that chest and then get out of here. I see another opening to the side, and it looks like daylight is shining through.”

“Forget the chest,” Vorstag said, lifting his face in the direction she had indicated. “It only held two septims. Let’s get out of this fucking place!”

“Two septims…” she repeated, but found herself speaking to his back. For one brief moment she looked longingly at the chest, her fingers twitching, but she made no move towards it. She decided it didn’t really matter, not if he had checked the chest, as she trusted him. She waded as fast as she could through the water to reach the steps leading up to the promise of daylight.

The room was circular and small, only wide enough in diameter to hold a moldy, crumbling wooden spiral staircase. Water fell down the center, white with air and daylight from high above. There were urns and another chest tucked into the alcoves along the wall, but what caught her attention was Vorstag.

He had stopped in front of a pedestal, hesitant to pick up the item there as, according to Gratian’s journal, the last time something was plucked off a pedestal in this place Draugrs attacked. He didn’t think he had the strength in him to do any more fighting, not until he could rest.

“What is it?” Gerhild asked, coming up behind him. She laid a hand gently on his back as she stepped to his side and got a clear view of the book. “Oh. Shit.”

“You know what it is?” he asked, even more cautious after her reaction.

She took a deep breath. “Remember on the ship here, I told you about Hermaeus Mora and his Black Books?”

“That’s one of them?” he asked, catching on quickly. He didn’t step any closer, but he did crane his neck for a better look.

“Aye,” she sighed, and the tone made him look at her sharply.

“You’re not going to read it, are you?” he asked. When she didn’t answer, he turned and gripped her shoulders. “Don’t do it. You said these books were dangerous, that they take you to a realm of Oblivion. Nothing good can come of dealing with Daedra, Gerhild. Leave it. Let’s get out of here and into sunlight and…”

“I have to,” she said quietly. “I… I can’t… just leave it…” her voice was muffled behind her hood and helmet. “What if it holds some knowledge that’s useful, something that can destroy Miraak, like a weakness or a poison or…” She turned her helmet towards him at last. “I wouldn’t want to have to come all the way back here again because I found out later that I need what’s in this book. I have to. It’s like that impulse of mine, to check every chest…”

“…And pick every locked door,” he finished for her. “Aye, I understand. I don’t approve, but I understand.” He let go of her and blew a heavy breath through his lips. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

She shook her head. “No, but it has to be done, regardless. And it isn’t very likely that we’ll be disturbed here, not for a while at least. I’ll have the time to read it and come back from Oblivion.”

“How long will that take?” he asked warily.

She shrugged. “No idea.”

Vorstag whipped off his helmet to run his long fingers through his hair. “Shit.” He didn’t say anything more, but dropped his pack to the floor and looked around for a place to wait. He was pouting, he knew she knew it, but he also knew she had to do this. He found an old table to sit on in one alcove, leaned back against the wall, and said, “Fine. I’ll use the time to catch up on my beauty rest.” He tried to sound nonchalant, but he knew he wouldn’t get a wink of sleep while she was gone.

She didn’t speak again, but walked up to the pedestal. Through his eyelashes he watched her reach out hesitantly and pick up the book. Then she opened it to the first page. Oily black tentacles whipped out of the tome, making him jump up in alarm, but she commanded him, “Stay back! This is supposed to happen…” Her voice trailed away as the tentacles wrapped around her, passed through her, and finally retreated into the pages.

“That was it?” he asked, but then realized it wasn’t quite over yet. Gerhild stood there, looking like a ghost, or like she had used that Ethereal Shout again. Her form was transparent and still, yet able to hold the solid-looking Black Book before her face. He was tempted to peek, to just walk around behind her and see what he could of the pages through her spectral body, but he remembered her warning about how most people went mad upon reading Black Books. Something kept her sane, probably her Dragonborn qualities, so he decided instead to send a quiet prayer to the Nine Divines to keep her sane and whole, or return her whole, as she wasn’t whole right then, split between Nirn and Oblivion… He gave up trying to reason it out.

“Stuhn, God of Ransom, Apologist of Man,” he breathed, “Protect your Champion with your Shield. Keep her from Daedra. And restore her to me.”

He sat back down, tired physically but too awake mentally to sleep, and chewed a knuckle while he waited.

He wasn’t sure how long it took, the light in the waterfall had remained constant so he knew it wasn’t nighttime yet, when all of a sudden she gasped as if taking a breath for the first time in her life. He jumped to his feet, reaching her side as she swayed, the book falling from her nerveless fingers. He let the tome fall and held her in her arms as she wavered for a moment before finding her footing.

“Vorstag?”

“Aye, I’m here. You’re back. Not that you were gone. But you’re all here, now. I mean… whatever.”

Her shoulders shook and for a moment he thought she might be crying, but when she spoke she could hear the humor in her voice. “You can let go of me now.”

He pulled back quickly, like he had touched something hot enough to burn, embarrassed that she had caught him lingering. “So, ah,” he rubbed at the back of his neck as he turned away to pick up his helmet, “Was it worth it?” She didn’t answer, and he looked back up at her. “Well?”

“I did learn something useful, at least,” she took a step closer to him, “I think you’ll find it useful.”

He didn’t like the tone of her voice, and he shifted back a pace. “Oh?”

She nodded, moving forwards again, making him move backwards again. Damn, but this strangeness about her was unnerving. If she’d only take off her helmet, at least he could see her eyes, and know if she was herself or—gods forbid—had slipped over into madness.

“Want me to show you?” she asked suggestively.

He swallowed, “That isn’t necessary. You could just tell me…”

“Oh, no,” she purred evilly, “Not this one. This you have to see to believe.”

Never mind wanting to see her eyes; he knew she was mad. He decided to humor her, at least until he could figure out what to do. “See what?” No sooner than those two little words were out of his mouth when he saw those telltale signs. She pulled her shoulders back, took a deep breath, and he knew she was going to Shout at him.

_“Fus Ro Dah!”_

He cried out and cringed, throwing his arms up to protect himself, even though he knew it would do no good. He heard the supernatural echo behind her Thu’um, like the roar of a dragon, felt the urns on the table behind him shatter against the wall, but nothing happened to him. There was no push on his body, not even a breath of wind in his hair. He peeked up over the top of his arm to see her, standing with her helmet and hood removed, grinning at him the same way he liked to grin at her.

“Gotcha!”

He blinked at her, not sure what had just happened. He turned around, but the area behind him looked like a tornado had struck. Yet he was completely untouched. “What the…?”

“My attacks will no longer hurt you,” she explained. “Not my Shouts or my magic, at least. Not sure about my war axe. Anyway, pretty handy, huh?”

Thinking back to the night he swallowed her Thu’um, he had to agree. Hesitantly he nodded, and then slugged her shoulder. “Don’t scare me like that again.”

There was that laugh, tired and exhausted but full of emotions. Gods, if only she could hear herself as he heard her, see herself as he saw her.

Love herself as he loved her.

“I said,” she repeated, and he was surprised to find that his mind had wondered, for once, “We should get going. Who knows what we’ll find up there, or how much daylight is left.”

“Aye, right,” he agreed, shoving his helmet back into place and slinging his pack over his shoulder. “You lead…”

“…And you’ll follow,” she finished. He wondered if she was being sarcastic, but decided she was just in a good mood. Maybe a little too cheerful, but she had just been to Oblivion and back, and no doubt was simply reveling in the fact that she was alive. He heard the little tune her father had taught her, humming from within her helmet, and figured she was just happy to be alive.

Happiness. There was a good emotion. He’d love to take the time and make her admit she felt it, but he really wanted to get out of there.

The staircase ended at a door, which led to another tunnel, which led to a secret opening. Gerhild pulled the chain, but before the stone finished moving they realized they could hear voices. He watched her as she pulled her shoulders back and whispered/Shouted, _"Laas Yah Nir."_ After a moment, she turned her expressionless helmet to him, and he held up two fingers, telling her how many people he heard. She shook her head and held up three. She gestured for him to take the first one on the right, while she focused on the second one.  They'd take the third one together.

They could tell the people were Reavers, what passed for bandits in Solstheim, from listening to their mumblings. The Reavers were spaced far enough apart that killing one didn't alert the others. Vorstag's victim was bent over an alchemy table, mixing up some noxious smelling poison. He never had time to feel the arrow pierce his flesh before his heart burst. Gerhild's victim was armored more heavily, but one well-aimed swing sliced through his neck, nearly decapitating him. She cleaned her war axe on a corner of his clothing before nodding to Vorstag, who had his bow strung and an arrow notched. The two of them crept quietly through the tunnel, their footsteps silent despite their heavy armor thanks to all their previous experiences.  Around a corner and the third Reaver came into sight, kneeling over the bodies of two unfortunate travelers. She was searching their clothing, grumbling about the lack of coin or anything of value, standing up to relieve her frustration by kicking the corpses. Vorstag grimaced, raised the arrow, and let it fly.

The arrow passed into the neck, missing the artery. The Reaver gave a gurgled cry before falling to her knees between the two travelers. Vorstag cursed his clumsy aim and fired another arrow, finishing her quickly, a far better death than she deserved. He looked over at Gerhild, but her helmet remained impassive. "What?"

"I didn't say anything."

"Aye, well," he nodded, turning away from the Reaver, not sure if he felt good about his actions or not. He was fairly sure the first arrow had missed by accident, but he didn't want to think about it too much. "Good."

They walked through the next door, and Vorstag finally felt the wind on his face. Looking ahead to the far side of a narrow bridge, he saw the sun setting between two ruined towers. He took a deep breath, turned to Gerhild, and smiled widely behind his helmet. He wanted to shout with joy, the feeling of freedom nearly as sweet as that first moment after serving his time in Cidhna Mine. A chuckle rumbled in his chest, echoing along the steep slope and between the crumbling towers before them.


	12. Down in Raven Rock

Vorstag stood on a small ledge facing a bridge, two crumbling towers framing a perfect sunset on the water. Beside him stood Gerhild, her expressionless helmet turning minimally as she took in the view. Behind him was the nightmare that had been an abandoned ebony mine leading to a seemingly inescapable pit, the crypt of a Dragon Priest, a Black Book, and then a small den of Reavers. Before him was air and daylight and freedom, things he had feared he would never own again. He couldn’t stop himself, the chuckle welling up within his chest and tumbling down the mountainside. The sound was loud, carried by the wind and the slope—to the waiting ears of more Reavers camping in the towers.

“Shit,” he breathed in the next moment, realizing what he had done. Gerhild didn’t bother admonishing him, thinking the two of them were more than a match for a band of Reavers, and he really had needed to let loose some of the tension and frustration building up over the past couple of days—or for however long they were trapped down there. Instead she drew her war axe in one hand and slipped her shield around her other forearm. Then she was racing across the narrow bridge to the first tower, thinking only of engaging the enemy before they realized what was upon them.

Or who.

Vorstag hung back a moment, spying a Reaver in the other tower who had taken notice of Gerhild and was stringing his bow. Vorstag had his still strung and in his hands, and a moment later a Nordic arrow arced through the air to penetrate through the Reaver’s eye socket and into his brain. He died without a sound, leaving Vorstag to focus on helping Gerhild.

She was already across the bridge and heading down the ramp to the lower floor, battling one Reaver before her. With practiced ease she backhanded her shield across his face to stun him, tilted her arm to drive the rim of the shield into his throat to silence him, and finished with a powerful swing of her war axe into the corner of his neck. He was dead before he hit the ramp.

She didn’t see the Reaver approaching from the upper landing. Vorstag let out a shout of warning, but he was too far away to engage, and the arches of the bridge were in the way for him to shoot. He began running, drawing his dwarven sword as he raced, knowing he’d be too late. He saw Gerhild hear his warning, and turn swinging, but the Reaver was already on her and shoving with her shield, sending Gerhild over the side of the ramp to the shoreline below.

There was no more time for thought, no more room for it either, as a roaring filled his brain. The sound came from his chest, tearing through his mouth and helmet in an ancient Nordic battle-cry, born from his very blood, but he couldn’t be bothered to notice. The Reaver looked up at him—a golden sword that reflected the light of the setting sun, held by a towering man in stalhrim armor barreling down on her with a battle-cry loud enough to stir the blood of Draugr—and pissed herself. He didn’t notice the smell or dampened wooden planks beneath their feet, but battered at her hastily raised shield, driving her further down the ramp. She managed to turn the corner and enter the tower, but it did her no good; in fact, it sealed her doom. She had to angle around the corner, giving him an opening between her and her shield. He kicked the inside of her shield, flinging it and her arm away from her. He rammed his shoulder into her chest, snapping her head against the stonework, at the same time his sword arm braced her shield arm away. He stepped back to punch his free hand into her arm, breaking her elbow and making her cry out in pain.

It didn’t matter to him that her weapon was still sheathed. It didn’t matter to him that she was in no condition to continue the fight. He ignored her pleas for mercy and grabbed hold of her shoulder in a cold, vice-like grip, his fingers digging through her thin armor and into her flesh. His lips compressed into even thinner lines as he pushed suggestively downwards, and she fell to her knees, her tears smearing her warpaint down her cheeks. He spun his sword in his other hand, reversing his grip, and in his only merciful act he ended her life quickly and cleanly, driving the point down through her neck and into her chest, bursting her heart. The blow was so powerful, he had to brace his foot against her to pull his weapon free.

The next moment he was running, running through the towers, desperate to find a way down to the shore. He finally made it, disappointed he hadn’t found any other Reavers to kill, but also thankful because he couldn’t take the time to indulge in his anger. He’d come back later and desecrate their corpses, if he needed to. Right then, he had to find Gerhild, had to see if—ah, gods, all the shit they’d just gone through, if she’d died falling off a tower…

There she lay on the rocky shoreline, her steel plate armored body half in, half out of the water. Her limbs were splayed, her legs unmoving beneath the water and her arms limply trying to reach for something around her shoulders. He cried out, his tears unnoticed by himself, as he reached her side.

“Gerhild!”

He dropped down into the surf beside her, unintentionally spraying her with water. She coughed, and he thought it was due to the water splashing over her helmeted face. He muttered some sort of apology, grabbing her flailing hands and holding them to his chest. “Gerhild!”

“…Vorstag…” her voice sounded weak and thick with liquid. Afraid she was choking on the water he had splashed on her, he let go of her hands and began removing her helmet and hood. Once he got her face in view, he saw the lines of pain marring her perfect features, and a bubble of blood that she was trying to spit out of her mouth. Her lips moved, the blood finally escaping, as she tried to speak, “Don’t… don’t… move…”

He didn’t bother to listen to her, so relieved to find her alive and coherent. It meant she would be able to heal herself, and then everything would be alright—his lapse in attention wouldn’t matter, wouldn't have nearly caused her death. He grabbed hold of her shoulders and lifted her up into his embrace, intending to confess how sorry he was he had let her down, that he hadn’t watched her back as closely as he should, that someone had gotten past him and…

Instead his ears filled with her scream, her voice strangled on a bloody cough. At the same moment his hands found the wound in her back, and his eyes saw the rock she had been bent backwards over. Her blood covered the stone, spreading out like frosting on a sweet roll to reach the sand beneath and be lapped away by the waves. He cursed himself and his hasty actions, but it was too late now to put her back. Carefully he lifted her in his arms and carried her to a smooth and sandy stretch of shore away from any immediate danger of the tide, just in case it was coming in. He set her down on her front, mindful of keeping the sand out of the wound on her back, and turned her face to the side so she could breathe.

“Gerhild? Gerhild, can you hear me? Are you awake? Can you heal yourself?” He brushed a few wayward strands of hair back from her face, knocking some sand away as he did so, and was rewarded when one deep violet eye fluttered open.

“I… I think so…” she moaned softly, and had to pause to spit out more blood. “But my armor… it’s broken… my back… I can’t feel my legs…”

He looked at the wound, the one thing he had hoped to avoid doing, the guilt threatening to bow him down. He was supposed to be watching her back, keeping her safe, and he had let someone get past him and hurt her. He was responsible for the wound, for her near death. He forced himself to look and gasped at the sight.

“That… that bad…?”

He closed his eyes, cursing himself this time for letting her see his reaction. When he opened them again, he tried to make his soft brown eyes calm and unconcerned. “You’ve scratched your armor,” he began, trying to force some lightness into the situation, but as soon as the words were out, he realized such a thing was tactless. The one cool violet eye held his gaze unblinkingly, and he knew he’d have to be honest with her. “I… The steel has broken and is bent inwards from your impact on the rocks, leaving a… hole… about the size of an apple.” He couldn’t look at her face while he talked, the guilt cutting him as deeply as her wound cut her.

“Aye.”

“I… I suppose… I’ll have to take the cuirass off… cut it free… can’t just unbuckle it… pull the armor out of the wound… then you can heal yourself,” he reasoned it through out loud, not sure if it was any easier looking at the oozing wound.

“Aye.”

“It’s gonna hurt…” he paused to swallow, not looking forward to what he had to do.

“Aye.”

“Can’t you say anything else!” he demanded, his emotions welling out of control.

The deep violet eye looked at him, the answer obvious, but she was in too much pain to tease him. “Just give me something to bite down on. Then take it off. Hurry, Vorstag, I’m trying to hold on, but I’m getting weaker…”

He didn’t answer her, turning to pull his pack off his back. Her pack had fallen somewhere; he’d find it later, after she had healed herself. He took out a small dagger he used for slicing meat, the thin leather-wrapped handle perfect for biting. First, though, he used the blade to cut away the straps that held the front of the armor to the back, so he would be able to lift the two pieces apart. She flinched and tensed at every little jerk, the edges of the hole biting deep. Then he put the handle between her teeth, and she nodded at him, letting him know she was ready.

She didn’t wait for him, closing her eyes and focusing on the healing spell. He grimaced, but there was nothing else for it but to lift as quickly and cleanly as he could. His fingers slipped under the edge of the ruined armor and he tore it off her back.

Gerhild nearly bit through the handle, her spell almost faltering. Then the magic she had already cast began its work, refreshing and strengthening her, and the deepest part of the wound began to heal. Strengthened and encouraged by this, she reinforced the spell, sending more of the metaphysical ribbons into her body. Vorstag tore at the hole in her padded underclothing, widening it so he could watch the wound heal and make sure every last mark was erased. Hesitantly his fingers touched her skin, but the only scars on her back were the ones that had been there before. He took a deep breath, and looked back at her face, catching her eye. “It’s done. Can you feel your legs?”

She spit out the handle of the dagger, and a bit of blood after it, before she nodded weakly. For proof, she kicked both toes into the sand a few times. He gave a relieved sort of snort, and looked up in time to see her eye roll up into the back of her head. “Aye, get some rest,” he said to her, brushing a little more sand off her cheek before giving it a tender kiss. “I’ve got this. You got us out of that tomb; I’ll get us back to Raven Rock.”

He pulled a blanket out of his pack and wrapped it around her shoulders, making sure she would stay warm and dry while he was away. He retraced their steps, having to go all the way back to the ledge leading into the mountain before he found all their discarded equipment and packs. From up there he spied a boat a little ways further up the coast. Though he felt guilty even thinking about stealing it, he knew he didn’t have a choice. They needed to get back to the city and out of the elements.

Once he reached the boat, he realized it wouldn’t be missed. There were signs of a struggle—blood and footprints and a discarded iron dagger. He reasoned it probably belonged those two ill-fated travelers, killed by Reavers, whose bodies he had seen back in the den. No one would mind if he stole the boat, as it was no longer owned. Having eased that part of his conscience, he put their equipment in the bottom and rowed the boat back to where he had left Gerhild.

She was sitting up by the time he returned, dark circles under her eyes and a weary slump to her shoulders, but she seemed whole. She had even made a small fire, off to the side, and removed the rest of her armor and clothing to let it dry. She sat completely enveloped within the blanket, her head slowly turning and scanning, her eyes glowing with that strange light blue. He knew she had used the whispered Shout that showed her where people and animals were, even when out of direct line of sight, so she would already know he was coming. He got out of the boat and pulled it far enough up so the waves wouldn’t wash it out to sea, then approached the fire.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Her words were soft, as gentle as the night breeze, but they did nothing for the guilt tearing through his chest. “Am I that obvious?”

“Aye,” she answered simply, “But perhaps only to me. I read it in your expressions and your body language earlier, heard it in the tone of your voice. Even now you came straight up to the fire and didn’t look at me once. You’re blaming yourself for my falling off the ramp, when truthfully it was my own damn fault.”

He shook his head, unwilling to have his culpability mitigated so easily. “I was distracted by…” he stopped, hating himself for having done it, but he had to say it. “I should have known better, should have suspected there were more Reavers, especially seeing the towers as soon as we came outside. But I was so damn relieved to get out of there…” He threw a small, broken shell at the unoffending fire. “I alerted them to our presence! I got distracted, taking out the archer in the other tower, I didn’t see the more immediate threat…”

The sound of her hand smacking the back of his helmet was loud on the empty beach, louder within the stalhrim armor. His words were broken by a wince, and he found himself turning his head towards her.

“At last, you look at me. Do you see me, Vorstag? I’m whole. I’m alive. And I didn’t fall because you were distracted by another archer. I didn’t fall because you weren’t at my back. I fell because I sneezed.”

There was silence for all of three seconds before he exclaimed, “What?!”

“I sneezed,” she admitted, feeling her cheeks redden just a little, hoping it was due to the heat of the fire. She had moved closer after Vorstag arrived, mostly to head off his guilty rambling before he let it eat himself to death. Now she settled down next to him crossed-legged on the sand, the blanket still wrapped warmly around her lithe frame. Taking a deep breath, she told him what he had been too full of self-incrimination before to hear.

“When we first reached the outside, I Shouted, to see who was nearby. There were only three Reavers, so I wasn’t too concerned when I heard you laugh, and I knew you needed the release after all that,” she lifted her chin at the mountain beside them. “Anyway, you had seen the one in the other tower, so I decided to take on the two in the closer tower. I killed the one heading down the ramp, and would’ve turned sooner to take on the one coming behind me, but I sneezed. Twice, actually. Messed up the inside of my hood. By the time I could turn around, the last Reaver was already pushing me off the ramp.” One hand snaked out of the top of the blanket to rub at the side of her nose. “So you see, it wasn’t your fault. If I hadn’t sneezed, I would’ve been able to take that last Reaver in time. Besides, you had to perform a fairly amazing shot to have hit that other archer from that distance. So, there’s nothing for you to feel ashamed of, right?”

He was quiet, and she could tell he didn’t want to believe her. “Honestly, a sneeze?”

“Two,” she wiggled the same number of fingers at him, looking sheepishly at his face.

Half his face formed a smile, the other a grimace. “By the Nine, woman, you are going to be the death of me!”

It was muttered under his breath, but she heard it. She decided to drop the subject, pointing over her shoulder and asking, “Did you steal a boat?”

“I… no, I… it wasn’t…” he flustered, having to press his lips closed and get a hold of himself before he could explain. “I found it a little ways along the shore. I think it belonged to those two dead travelers we saw inside the Reavers’ den. There were signs of a struggle around it, I mean, so I don’t think the boat belongs to anyone anymore.”

She nodded before leaning away from the fire. She began struggling to her feet, Vorstag immediately there and offering her a steadying hand. “Well, then, let’s go home. I’d rather row back to Raven Rock in the dark than spend the night on this beach.”

“Nuh-uh,” he said, shaking his head, “I’ll row. You rest and stay warm.”

Outwardly she huffed and rolled her eyes, but inwardly she smiled. She wasn’t happy about lying to him, but at least she had gotten Vorstag over his guilt. And making up a story about a sneeze or two was a lot less embarrassing than admitting the truth, that she took too long and used extra moves on the first Reaver, so that the second had the time to get the drop on her. If she had just killed him cleanly, she could have turned and killed the second one before Vorstag had finished taking out the archer. But she had let her arrogance get the better of her, and not only did it nearly cost her life, but it made Vorstag feel guilty. Well, one little lie and all was well again.

She looked up and caught him watching her, so she rubbed at her nose, pretending she still might want to sneeze.

* * *

“Aye, but can you repair it?”

Gerhild and Glover stood toe-to-toe, wearing matching expressions of determination. “It’s not a matter of repair,” the Raven Rock blacksmith was trying to explain for the fourth time, “It’s a matter of replace. I’m not trying to force you to buy anything; because of our mutual business partners, I’d give you another cuirass for free.” He said this last softly, with a wary look towards where a stranger was standing in the middle of the marketplace, next to the city’s well, talking with the Redguard sorceress, also a newcomer to Raven Rock. He was fairly sure the mercenary was the one who had been running around with the Dragonborn lately; there weren’t a whole lot of strangers in Raven Rock these days.

Gerhild knew he was looking at Vorstag, who as far as anyone knew, had come to Solstheim in the company of the Dragonborn, not Lady Gerhild. It was a necessary lie, though damned inconvenient; she would have liked nothing more than to stroll everywhere with him at her side. Even more, she knew that Vorstag was trustworthy, and that he had learned to look the other way on certain occasions where the law might have been bent just a little. But she also knew that he was not one to be introduced to her Thieves Guild friends, like Glover. So she had gone to speak with Glover alone, and told Vorstag to meet her in the tavern where she’d pretend to hire him. Yet for some reason he was loitering by the well, talking with the woman they had rescued from Highpoint Tower. A tiny wrinkle appeared on her brow for a moment before she regained control and decidedly brushed Vorstag from her mind.

“Aye, and I appreciate that,” she responded to whatever Glover had said, “But I need this piece of armor for… a job.”

“Business related?” he asked, turning the cuirass over in his hands. The hole in the back was still stained with her blood. Considering where it was located, he was amazed she was up and walking already. Either she had a large supply of very powerful healing potions, or she knew Restoration Magic. Unusual for a Nord, but not impossible. He had heard stories of one Nord woman in particular who was very adept at it.

“My business,” she admitted, “Nothing relevant to our… partners,” she referred to the Thieves Guild.

Glover looked at her closely, having noted how she kept watching the mercenary, before he sighed and shook his head. “You know, there’ve been rumors going around that the Dragonborn has been seen recently in Solstheim…”

“Listening to rumors can be dangerous.”

“…She wears armor like this, and knows magic and…”

“And repeating them even more dangerous.”

He stopped and looked at her. She returned his stare, her cold, dead violet eyes more than a match for him. He had to blink and look away. “Understood. I’m sorry, Lady Gerhild, but I cannot repair this. I don’t think anyone can. I’ve got a bonemold piece that you could have. It wouldn’t match, and it’s a little weaker than steel plate, but it’ll be better than nothing.”

She thought about it for a moment, her vanity warring with her reason. She didn’t have to wear a matching set of armor, not where she was going. The only one who’d see it would be Miraak, and the people of the Skaal Village, and Vorstag. Involuntarily her eyes swept across the marketplace. Vorstag and the Redguard were walking into the Retching Netch. She was practically hanging on his arm, laughing and smiling. He was smiling back, almost looking like he might be enjoying himself. Maybe he was just being polite with her? Gerhild wasn’t sure, but she did feel the urge to conclude her business with Glover as quickly as possible.

Just to make sure Vorstag didn’t get himself into any trouble.

“It’s alright, Glover,” she said, “I’ll wear my other armor.”

“You brought an extra set of heavy armor?” he asked, setting the destroyed cuirass aside. He might be able to beat it into a plow or shovel blade.

“No, the armor you gave me,” she admitted, referring to the sleeveless leather armor stowed in the bottom of her pack. She remembered the latest Shout she had learned, the one that fortified her Shouts, and gave her the aspects of a dragon. It wouldn’t matter what armor she wore—she could stand nude in front of Miraak—as long as she used that Shout, it would take a very strong spell or a very sharp blade to harm her. Besides, she wasn’t going to rely on strength, but on cunning. “I think I can make do with it.”

Glover didn’t feel as confident. “Listen, if you’re doing something dangerous,” he’d heard about Miraak, like everyone else in Solstheim, but after her warning earlier he wasn’t about to come out and say it, “You need as much protection as possible.”

She shook her head. “Comfort and ease of movement are just as important, and I don’t have the time to break in any new pieces of armor.” She pulled her gaze away from the doorway of the tavern; had she been staring at it? “Don’t worry, Glover. I’ll be back here before the week is out, without a scratch.”

“See to it that you are, or Brynjolf will have my head. And that’ll be after my brother, Delvin, gets through with me.”

She laughed, the sound joyous though the emotion was false, and kissed the Breton on his cheek. “Thank you for your concern, even if it was self-motivated. Good day, Glover.”

“Good day, Lady Gerhild,” he replied to her back. He watched her walk quickly across the marketplace and into the Retching Netch, smiling at her the whole time. “Nords are such a stubborn race of men.”

She didn’t hear his comment, more intent on reaching the tavern and making sure Vorstag hadn’t gotten himself embroiled in another fistfight. They didn’t have time for it, not if she wanted to get to and from Skaal Village and defeat Miraak before the Northern Maiden returned. There had been too many delays already. First Neloth, the Telvanni wizard, had asked her to track down and assassinate his former apprentice in Highpoint Tower—where she and Vorstag had rescued Niyya, the Redguard sorceress who was now hanging on his every word.

Then there was the disastrous adventure in Raven Rock Mine, all because—she could admit it—she wanted ebony ore. She was still a few ingots short of her goal for the full kit of ebony armor and weapons Eorlund was making for her. Crescius had promised her several ingots, in return for her help with the mine. It had seemed easy enough at the time, just explore the mine to make sure it was safe so it could be reopened. Yet it had nearly cost them their lives, several times over, something neither she nor Vorstag had felt comfortable talking about. Crescius, at least, had been pleased to learn the fate of his great-grandfather, and promised to have the ingots delivered to her before the week was out.

But she needed to keep going, keep driving towards her goals, or she’d never get anything done.

She stumbled down the last few steps, wondering why the Dunmer loved to construct all their buildings underground, and stopped to admonish herself to keep her mind on what she was doing. Luckily the only person who saw her misstep was, of course, Vorstag. He was at a corner table, Niyya beside him and leaning a little too close into his personal space. He was talking with an easy air about him, probably telling her some story; and she was laughing and gasping and clapping her hands at all the appropriate times. Gerhild rolled her eyes; she knew acting when she saw it, and Niyya was acting, badly, like Lydia had, trying to catch Vorstag’s interest. She headed for the counter, figuring to let him finish telling his tale and enjoying his spotlight, however insincere, before she broke up the happy little scene and pretended to hire him.

“Ah, Lady Gerhild, what can I interest you in today?” Geldis Sadri leaned across the counter. “A bottle of my finest sujamma, perhaps?”

“I’m afraid I only have time for one glass,” she smiled, her dimples deepening on her cheeks.

Geldis clicked his tongue at her, even as he poured the goblet to the rim. “You should take the time, young lady. Or you’ll reach my age and wonder where the time has gone.”

“What?” she asked, pulling her gaze away from Vorstag again. “Oh, here,” she set some coins on the countertop.

“On the house,” he replied, pushing the coins back to her. “I still owe you for getting the residents of this city interested in my special brew.”

Her dimples grew even deeper, “My pleasure, Geldis. It really is quite good.” She took a sip, half in his honor, half so that she could carry it over to Vorstag’s table without spilling it down the front of her dress.

Vorstag had noticed the moment she came into the cornerclub, chewing her lower lip, and wasn’t at all surprised when she tripped. He saw the guilty expression as she glanced around to see if anyone had noticed, and found his gaze on her. He didn’t miss a beat as he continued telling Niyya about his fight with an Elder dragon, even while watching Gerhild out of the corner of his eye. It was awkward, as Niyya had met Vorstag while within the company of the Dragonborn, and Gerhild currently wasn’t in her armor so no one knew she was the Dragonborn, so he had to pretend not to know her as Vorstag and the Lady Gerhild of Raven Rock hadn’t been introduced yet…

A tiny spot of pressure began building up behind his temples; he didn’t know how Gerhild managed to keep these things straight. Gods, this was confusing.

Gerhild had been heading his way, thinking to tell him they would leave immediately as they were no longer going to wait for her armor to get fixed. Then she remembered she was Gerhild, not the Dragonborn, and belatedly veered towards the table nearby. She sat with her back to them, sipping on her drink, listening in to his story and trying hard not to scoff.

“And you delivered the final blow?” Niyya breathed, suitably impressed. She leaned forward to take his hand, the shadow of her cleavage angled perfectly. She had found employ with the Councilor of Raven Rock, and had been able to afford a new dress—a dress that displayed her ample bosom to its finest.

“Ah, well, that’s hard to say,” he admitted sheepishly, taking a hasty swallow of his mead. “The Dragonborn struck from below at the same time I struck from above. Either one of us, or both, killed the dragon.”

“And so you started traveling with her,” she sighed, her chest heaving.

Gerhild didn’t have to look to picture what she was doing, hearing it in her breath and the rustle of her gown.

“It must be so dangerous, fighting dragons and exploring ancient tombs,” she paused, and Gerhild could imagine her leaning in even closer, her lips turned upwards invitingly, “Rescuing damsels in distress. Do you ever fear for your life? Do you ever find yourself thinking, you might not survive this?”

Was it getting hot in here? He took another swallow of mead, but the drink was tepid and did nothing to cool his cheeks. “Aye, ah, well,” he gave a small cough, extremely conscious of Gerhild sitting right behind Niyya. “I do feel fear, felt it lots of times, not just while adventuring with the Dragonborn. The trick is controlling your fear. If you can do that, you can handle anything.”

“And do you?” she had to be sitting in his lap by now, Gerhild imagined, “Control your fear? I know I was afraid, locked in that cell, watching everyone else being taken away to be experimented upon, killed, knowing my death was so close…” her voice trailed away, and Gerhild could imagine her face turning slightly away. She predicted a shudder would be next, something strong so he would feel the vibrations through the table. Then he was supposed to put his arm around her, calm her, kiss her hair and tell her everyone fears death.

“Actually, I don’t fear death, not when I’m with her.” The admission was soft, and Gerhild almost didn’t catch herself before turning around to look at him. “That’s not to say that I’m foolish enough to think I couldn’t die while she’s around; traveling with her is the most dangerous thing a person can do. But I don’t fear death, because that death would undoubtedly be for something worthwhile, something important, something worthy of Sovngarde. No, there are other things worse than death; that’s what I fear.”

“What could be worse than death?” Niyya asked, bewildered. Gerhild almost answered, his darkest fear exposed to her while they had been trapped within the mine, but again remembered in time that she wasn’t supposed to know Vorstag. Or be listening in on their conversation. She sighed into her goblet, think of how noble Vorstag was, how willing to sacrifice his life for a greater cause. He was such a large-hearted, puppy-eyed, strong yet gentle Nord…

Vorstag had been willing to talk with Niyya. He’d been willing to let her buy him a drink. He supposed on some level he’d been thinking of trying to make Gerhild feel jealous, or at least get her thinking that other women might find him interesting so she better hurry up and figure out her own feelings for him before it was too late! But he saw now that it wouldn’t work. Gerhild was a special case, and sitting there literally behind her back, trying to lean away from Niyya without appearing rude, was making him feel like a heel.

Especially after all they’d been through recently.

“Excuse me, Niyya, but like I said, I only had time for one drink. I’ve gotta go meet someone… someplace.”

“The Dragonborn,” she pouted. Again Gerhild rolled her eyes.

“Aye,” he said, the sound of his chair scraping the floor as he stood up quickly following. “There’s an item or something she needs to get out of another tomb or someplace. I’m sorry, but I’ve gotta… well… go.”

He bumped Gerhild’s chair in his haste to leave, uttering a brief, “Excuse me,” as he passed. She looked up to follow him ascending the stairs out of sight, but couldn’t understand why he had suddenly raced off, as that wasn’t part of their plan. Deciding to ask him later, if she bothered to remember, she turned back and took another sip. The sooner she finished her drink, the sooner she could change into armor and track him down…

“Allow me to introduce myself, I’m Niyya.”

Gerhild almost spit out her drink, startled to see the woman inviting herself to her table. She also almost forgot that Niyya only knew the Dragonborn, not her, and had to wonder why her composure kept slipping. “Gerhild,” she answered, pleased despite herself when Niyya offered her forearm in the Nordic fashion.

“Oh, I know who you are,” Niyya admitted, “Everyone in Raven Rock knows about Lady Gerhild North-Wind, how you saved Councilor Morvayn from assassination. I just wanted the chance to meet such a renowned woman as yourself.”

“Oh, well, thank you, I guess.” It felt strange sitting there, listening first to Niyya trying to seduce Vorstag, and now buttering up to her. That damned indigestion was back, making her itch to run away. She needed to meet up with Vorstag, anyway, and let him know their plans had changed. “It really wasn’t so great a feat. I’m sure Captain Veleth would have caught them, it’s just that I happened to have stumbled over their plot.”

Niyya nodded, setting the matter aside. “So, tell me, what brings you to Solstheim, and how long are you staying?”

“Oh, I’m here on business. I do a bit of trading; I’m a merchant. Mostly though I just like traveling and meeting new people.”

Niyya sighed and finished her drink, waving to Geldis to order another one. “He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?” she asked, and with a start Gerhild realized she was talking about Vorstag.

“What? Oh, that mercenary?” she stammered.

“Yes, but he prefers the term sellsword,” she set her chin on her hand, staring vacantly at the stairs. “Or even freelance adventurer for hire. He’s such a gentleman, strong, kind, intelligent, faithful. I can’t believe he’s not married already. Either he’s in love with someone, or he’s gay. I can’t figure out which.”

Gerhild knew, but she didn’t answer, figuring to leave Niyya in ambiguous conjecture. Once she defeated Miraak, she’d never have to come back here, never have to bring Vorstag back here, and Niyya could just sit and sigh and wonder for the rest of her life…

“Excuse me,” Gerhild said, standing up after finishing her drink, “But I have some business to conduct yet today. It was a pleasure meeting you, Niyya.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Lady Gerhild,” she stood to give a curtsy as Gerhild left. Before she sat back down, her eyes were glazed over again as she fantasized about the adventurous Nord brave enough to travel with the Dragonborn.

Gerhild practically raced from the tavern for her manor, the urge to leave Raven Rock stronger than ever.


	13. Not again!

"Not again!" he said, stepping forward to put his hand on the cover before she could open the Black Book.

"Vorstag, we've been over this," Gerhild said, her tone dangerous and low. She was wearing that strange, sleeveless leather armor, which in his opinion would offer no protection whatsoever! She had added a veil, something that kept her features covered and her anonymity intact, but it would hardly make any difference in a fight against another Dragonborn. "I must face him and finish this, finish Miraak! There's been too high a price paid already for me to back down now."

Neither of them could look at the body of Storn lying in the bloodied snow, his daughter Frea kneeling at his side, quietly mourning. Both of them felt the guilt, of having to make the bargain with the Daedric Prince Hermaeus Mora, giving him the secrets of the Skaal in exchange for the Shout she needed to kill Miraak. It was far from ideal, it was distasteful, and it was fated. Storn knew this, which is why he hadn't objected when the Dragonborn reluctantly told him of the deal. So he had read the Black Book, and Hermaeus Mora had appeared and absorbed the knowledge of the Skaal.

Now it was Gerhild's turn to read the book and collect her part of the deal.

"Let me come with you."

She shook her head, "You can't. You could be driven mad, or have your mind wiped clean by Hermaeus Mora. That's too great a risk to take, just so I wouldn't have to fight Miraak alone." She reached a hand around to hold the back of his neck, pulling his face in close to hers. "But he's alone, too, more alone than I am because I have you here waiting for me. So stay here, Vorstag, watch over my body while I'm gone. I'll return to you. I promise."

He hated it, hated to admit it, but she was right. "I'll hold you to that promise," he said threateningly, his hand covering hers.

She gave him a tight smile, not that it showed beneath her veil, but he could catch a glimpse of it within her eyes. "I know you will." Then she slipped out of his grasp, dropped her gaze, and opened the book.

It seemed to take hours. Vorstag spent the first few moments standing next to Gerhild, taking his role as her protector literally, but quickly realized that there was nothing for him to do. It wasn't as if there were Draugr or wild animals that could suddenly appear to threaten their lives. Standing in the middle of a village, there wasn't any danger at all—unless a dragon decided to attack, and he'd have plenty of warning if that were to happen. After a time, some of the villagers came up to remove Storn's body and prepare it for burial. He made to help them, looking for something useful to do, but Frea excused his offer. "Stay with the Dragonborn," she said, "It will all be for nothing, if she fails."

Right, he thought, like there's anything I can do to help her now. But it was apparent to him that everyone else thought there was something he could do, especially if the Dragonborn had commanded him to watch over her. So he stayed near Gerhild's semi-transparent form, pacing through the snow until he wore it down to the frozen ground, chewing his knuckle until he had nearly drawn blood.

Still the day wore on.

He was tired, worn down with the stress of worry. Someone came up and offered him some food, which he politely declined. Someone else came up and offered him some mead, which he also politely—and uncharacteristically—declined. He knew it did no good to deny himself, but he wasn't going to take another morsel of food or drop of drink until Gerhild was restored to him.

It wasn't long after that he found himself praying. Though he'd never been overly religious, he'd never been against it, either. He'd pray as the situation warranted, even to Talos if it seemed needed, though living in the Reach under the nose of a Thalmor Justiciar he had learned to be discreet. This day he prayed to her favorite god, Stuhn. He didn't know what could be done to protect her from a Daedric Prince's underhanded deal and the First Dragonborn Miraak. But if anyone could find a way to keep Gerhild alive and out of Hermaeus Mora's clutches, a god could, and she had to be on good terms with Stuhn for all the praying she did and the Thalmor she killed.

"Stuhn," he breathed, an idea forming in his mind, "Protect your Champion with your Shield. Keep her fate clear of Daedra. But if fate dictates that the Daedra must be involved, let them have me in her stead." There, a fitting prayer for the God of Ransom, as he just offered to ransom his fate for hers. Surely Stuhn would answer that!

A few moments later there was a soft sound, like a moan, coming from within her chest. Vorstag was beside her, ready to catch her as she came out of the trance, as soon as her body became solid once more. She gasped, her eyes rolling up into her head as she swayed. Immediately his hands were on her shoulders, steadying her. He longed to sweep her off her feet and carry her away from this place, but he knew she would protest. There were too many people around them, and the Dragonborn had a reputation to maintain as powerful and indefatigable. So he supported her until she could manage to stay on her feet, before reluctantly letting his hands fall away.

The Black Book had fallen forgotten into the snow. He would have continued to forget about it, but Frea picked it up for them. She had been standing and watching, though from a distance. As soon as Gerhild came back, she approached to speak to them quietly. "Is it over? Is Miraak dead?"

Gerhild nodded, struggling to keep the fatigue out of every movement. "Miraak is dead." She felt the heat from Vorstag's body beside her, through the bare skin on her arms, and was thankful for his closeness. It gave her strength just knowing he was there, he would always be there…

Frea nodded, but she wasn't through yet. "Tell me, please. Did my father have to die?"

The question crashed through her thoughts before they could start to wander. Gerhild held her gaze, feeling her pain, but refused to give in to the tears. Like Frea, her mother had died when she was little, leaving a hole in her life that never quite filled. Her father, too, was dead—just before she left for Skyrim—so the feeling of being alone, of being without family, was something she new intimately. "Aye. It was fated—unfortunate, but fated—that a shaman would eventually give the Skaal's secrets to Herma-Mora, as you name him; it just happened that when the time came, your father was the shaman." She reached out to lay her hand on the other's shoulder, "But though he took Storn's life and secrets, Herma-Mora couldn't take his soul. Your father dines in Sovngarde tonight. You will see him there again, one day."

Frea nodded. "I know that. Thank you, Dragonborn. Come, we have prepared a hut for your use. The hospitality of the village is yours for as long as you require it. Rest and recover from your trials." They began walking towards the hut she indicated, Vorstag ever watchful, seeing all those little signs of her exhaustion that no one else could see, that Gerhild tried to hide. Frea didn't speak again, not until they reached the door, and even then her voice was crackling with grief. "I feel I should warn you: the All-Maker crafted you for a specific purpose, Dragonborn. Whatever Herma-Mora's plans are, they will not be compatible with that."

"I understand," Gerhild answered, "Miraak is destroyed; I have no further use for Black Books or forbidden knowledge."

Frea nodded and opened the door for them, apparently satisfied. She didn't follow them inside, but handed the book to Vorstag—who looked like he wanted to be sick all over it—and left them alone.

"Stuhn's Shield, but I'm exhausted," Gerhild moaned as soon as the door was closed. Her reserves depleted, her guard lowered now that it was just the two of them, the room gave a violent lurch. The next few moments were lost to her, her sight full of grayness and her ears full of a soft wind. Even her body seemed insensate, noting there was something touching her but unable to tell her what it was or where. The only sensory input working seemed to be her sense of smell, her nostrils filling with the scent of armor and juniper. She lost herself to the void, reassured by that familiar scent.

Vorstag was near.

* * *

Her eyes were open for quite some time before she realized she could see. By the way Vorstag acted, she wondered if her eyes had ever closed, as he didn't take notice or try to talk with her when she blinked at him. Yet she had been semi-unconscious long enough for him to strip her of her armor and begin washing the grime and filth off her limbs. She watched him for a while, until she felt she should say something, before he started on anything below the covers. "Vorstag?"

"Aye," he sighed, pulling away from her shoulder to look at her face. "You awake now?" His long fingers brushed a few errant strands of hair off her cheek.

"I think so." Her cool voice was gentle, only reaching as far as his ears. "How long was I out?"

"Not that long," he answered, feeling better as he saw the grayness had left her face. "You wanna try eating anything?"

"Suppose I should." Their conversation was odd, stilted, as if there were things they both knew they needed to talk about, but neither one knew how to broach the subject. She rolled to her side, in preparation of sitting up, before she realized her tunic and leggings were removed. She felt heat steal across her cheeks; thinking of how she had deduced that the feminine form disgusted him, she couldn't understand why he had stripped her so completely. She had to consider the possibility that she had been wrong about her deduction. Well, there was one way to find out; she could simply ask.

"Why am I naked?"

He refused to look at her, his own cheeks reddening. "There was an awful lot of blood and gore on your armor; it didn't appear until after you got back from Oblivion. Anyway, I… I wanted to make sure… you weren't hurt or… anything…" He fussed around the fire, where the villagers had left a large pot of stew, several rabbit haunches, and a basket overflowing with bread. He filled two plates, piling as much food on them as he could, going as slow as he could, to give her as much time as he could. When he finally turned back around, he saw she had found her sleeveless tunic, stained with a messy stripe of blood around a wide tear across her left shoulder. He already knew there had been no matching wound beneath it, at least not anymore. She was sitting up, her crossed legs covered by the fur blanket. He handed her the plate, which she accepted wordlessly, before he reached for a nearby pitcher.

"There's only mead to drink; I hope you don't mind."

She shrugged, sopping up as much of the rich gravy as she could with a chunk of bread. She stuffed the whole thing into her mouth, puffing her cheeks out like a small rodent. She grunted something when he set a full mug before her, but right then she was amazed to find herself starving. She ate with her fingers, not caring about the mess or what kind of spectacle she made of herself, her only thought to fill the emptiness in her stomach.

Yet even after that large plate of food, the void deep inside her remained.

She set aside the plate, wiped clean with a final chunk of bread, before she reached for the mug. Swallow after swallow, she tipped the mug back until half of it was gone.

"You act as if you've never tasted food before."

The dry comment came from beside her, and she suddenly remembered Vorstag. She wiped some mead off her upper lip with the back of her hand, licked it off, and answered, "I don't know how long I was gone, from this side of things, but to me, it felt like I had been in that realm for at least a week."

"It was most of the day," he offered.

She shrugged again and lifted the mug back to her lips, but this time she took a single swallow.

"You wanna talk about it?"

The words were soft, though delivered without hesitation, just a simple offer set out for her to take or decline. He hadn't asked her what happened in Hermaeus Mora's realm of Oblivion the last time she had gone there. She had been thankful for that, as it wasn't something she wanted to remember. But staring down at her mug and seeing the surface of the mead broken with tiny, rippling waves, she knew she was having difficulty; and if she noticed it, undoubtedly Vorstag noticed it too. She knew one way that helped was to talk about it. Or write it down. And the only book nearby was that damned Black Book.

She recited the tale, from the moment she opened that book and found herself once more in Oblivion, to the final battle against Miraak. "All of this, the other Black Books, the deal with Hermaeus Mora, Storn's sacrifice… All of it was just so I could kill Miraak. But I couldn't." A tear slipped past her lashes, but she deliberately turned her gaze away to ignore it. "I had him beaten, almost dead, but he Shouted and became ethereal. Then he called out to one of those dragons circling overhead. He commanded it to land and give him its soul. His will was so great, it didn't even consider refusing him. And with a fresh soul, he was able to heal himself and start fighting me again.

"He did that three times!" she hissed, her blanket bunched in one fist. "I'd beat him to within an inch of his life, and he'd Shout and grow strong again. It wasn't fair. And with the number of dragons circling overhead, I realized I wasn't going to be able to defeat him, not if we kept going at it this way.

"The fourth time," she paused to swallow, but Vorstag didn't dare speak, caught up in the tale and the horror and knowing she needed to speak about it, to get it out of her soul or she'd never heal. "The fourth time, Hermaeus Mora appeared, and impaled him from behind, straight through the chest. As Miraak was dying, he cursed me. He said: may I be rewarded the same as he, for being Hermaeus Mora's Champion. But I wasn't—I'm not his Champion. I would have been, once I killed Miraak, but I didn't kill him, Hermaeus Mora did, so our deal was null and void.

"Hermaeus Mora figured this out, too. He tempted me, tried to imply he could show me all the Thu'ums in a single moment, or that there were Thu'ums only he knew, powerful ones, that I'd never learn without his guidance. It was like he was renegotiating, wanting to get me into a new contract before I could escape. I declined his offer, which he didn't appreciate. His tentacles whipped out for me, to impale me. I knew I couldn't get out of the way in time, but something stopped him. Something… raised my shield right before he struck," her arm mimicked the motion, her eyes still glazed and seeing only that nightmare she had faced alone. "I still caught a glancing blow to my shoulder, but I lived. He looked like he wanted to try again, but there was something stopping him. A presence or… I don't know what it was, I couldn't quite see it, even though it was between me and Hermaeus Mora. I only know, this presence commanded something of him, and forced him to allow me to leave his realm. I… I think it might've been Stuhn…"

This last part she whispered, as if afraid of saying it in case she was mistaken and inadvertently insulted a deity. Vorstag agreed with her, though, thinking of his prayer. He believed Stuhn had stepped in and stopped her from becoming subject to a Daedric Prince. "I'm just glad it's over."

"Aye," she sighed, leaning her head on his shoulder. They had been sitting side by side on the piled furs, staring at the fire, not wanting to look at each other as she talked. "It's over. Let's go home."

"Back to Whiterun?" he asked, not sure what she meant by home. He leaned back a little and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, holding her close.

"Back to Skyrim," she answered, feeling her heart soar with the thought. Then she yawned.

He chuckled softly at her tired response. "Fine, but tomorrow. Get some sleep. You've earned it." He eased her down onto the furs and slipped his arm away.

Gerhild sighed and closed her eyes when she felt him set her down on the furs. In her sleepy mind, she would have rather stayed in his arms, maybe tried a little something, but she knew that couldn't happen, not between them.

Or could it?

Her eyes flew open as she considered the possibility. He'd always been uncomfortable and awkward around women, even going back as far as Margret back in Markarth, yet he had no problems seeing her naked while tending her wounds. It was usually when she teased him that he got flustered, or that one night in Windhelm after the assassin attacked, which she supposed might have looked like she was teasing him, asking for his tunic and slipping into it right in front of him. Aye, she supposed that might have been what it looked like, at least to him. The tiny crease formed between her eyebrows as she tried again to figure out the puzzle that was Vorstag. She watched him finish undressing down to his loincloth before burrowing into another pile of furs on the other side of the banked fire pit.

"Vorstag?"

He gave a start, the furs shifting with the movement, yet he rolled over onto his side to face her. She was lying on her side, her arm tucked beneath her head like a pillow as she stared him with large, dark eyes. "Thought you'd be asleep by now."

"I, I was thinking, well, more like wondering, just that there's something, I don't know, but it doesn't, I mean, I don't understand, and I wanna ask, but I don't want to offend you."

"Just spit it out," he said around his own yawn as he rubbed at one eye. "I'm too tired tonight to be offended."

"It's about Niyya," she began, staring at his face in the ruddy light.

She could hear him swallow. "What about Niyya?"

She wasn't sure what had made her bring up the Redguard sorceress, but it was as good a place to start as any. "Well, I understand Lydia having a crush on you, and the way she acted, that all makes sense. But Niyya was different. She wasn't just flirting with you. She was… seducing you, or trying to. It was like, I don't know, Lydia flirted with you because she wasn't sure if you would like her, but Niyya seemed to feel that you did like her, and would be open to a sexual offer." If her tone was a little accusatory, she didn't notice.

Jealousy, he immediately jumped to the conclusion that Gerhild was feeling jealousy. Ah, gods, so it had worked, his little girly stunt with Niyya. He remembered thinking to himself that Niyya was interested in him, and available, and it had been so long for him, and it was only a mug or two and some conversation, so why not? And if it made Gerhild feel jealous, then maybe she'd have to admit why she felt jealous which would mean she'd have to admit that she loved him. It had been a very cowardly, passive/aggressive, girly thing for him to do; and of course it had worked. He mentally slapped himself, feeling even more ashamed for having done it. He could see now that it might not have been the best idea, that jealousy would not be a good first emotion for her to acknowledge. He'd have to handle this carefully, before she got it in her head to track down and hurt Niyya in a fit of jealous rage she couldn't understand. "Niyya almost died. We saved her, the Dragonborn and I, so she feels close to us for having shared that experience with her. If Niyya preferred women, I'm sure she would have acted like that towards you—the Dragonborn, I mean, not Lady Gerhild. But she prefers men, so she acted that way towards me."

He watched her chew her lip, mulling it over, examining it from every angle, seeming to accept that Niyya acted out of instinct, not genuine interest. So far, so good.

"You've saved me from death more times than I've been able to keep track of," she admitted, "But I don't feel like that towards you." As soon as she said it, she realized it was a lie. She had been feeling like seducing him, even if it was just to see, just to mess around and maybe kiss, maybe feel the whole length of his body, pressed against her own, nothing between them but their skin…

Ouch, those words hurt, but he kept it from his features. "Hmm, maybe I'll have to wait a little longer next time, until you're right at death's door, before saving you."

She looked at him sharply, wondering if he could be serious. His boyish grin flashed at her, his white teeth clearly visible in the darkened room, and she knew he was teasing. "Don't do me any favors," she huffed, and his chuckle let her know he knew she was teasing back.

She thought that might have been the end of the conversation, and though she continued to watch him watching her, she didn't speak or press the issue. Then he spoke, quietly, seriously. "Niyya fears death. That's why it's different for her. You and I, we don't fear death. I'm not saying we want to die or anything, but we know death wouldn't be the end, and that our deaths will probably be in a battle someday, fighting for a just cause. We don't fear it, so coming close to death doesn't affect us like it did Niyya. Do you see the difference?"

"I think so." She picked at a tuft of fur beside her hand. "So, if you or I, if we were to have a harrowing experience, face something we feared, something that overwhelmed us, then we might feel that way about whoever saves us from that situation?"

"Aye," he nodded.

"Like Briarhearts."

He wasn't sure if it was a question or a statement—she might have been trying to tease him, too, though it was a poor subject. "No, not Briarhearts. I don't like them, that's true, but it's not quite the same. Briarhearts are the monsters under the bed, where you wake up from a nightmare screaming, but as soon as you realize you're awake, you know it was just a dream and can go back to sleep." He rolled onto his back, one hand behind his head, staring up at the ceiling as he continued. "The fear I mean is different. Like the nightmare you have, when you wake up and can't get back to sleep, because it wasn't some **thing** you were dreaming of that frightened you, but some **idea** , some worry or thought that plagues you and keeps you awake for the rest of the night. That type of fear."

"Like being imprisoned or trapped…"

She knew she shouldn't have spoken it out loud, and cursed her loose tongue, especially when she saw the grimace on his profile.

"Aye," he all but moaned the word. "I'll admit it, when we were at the bottom of that pit, unable to go back the way we came or get through that door, that was the worst fear I've ever felt. The thought that I'd never see the sky again, or feel a breeze on my face, the thought that I'd die down there, that was my harrowing experience."

"But you saved yourself, saved us, I mean, from the pit," she said, not wanting him to get the idea that she thought he thought she had saved him and that she would then expect him to start seducing her… Stuhn's Shield, but that was too complicated to figure out. She grew silent, and prayed he would, too. She laid there and stared at him across the fire, avoiding her eyes and staring at the ceiling, his larynx bobbing with heavy swallows. She felt responsible for bringing his darkest fear to mind, and tried to think of something to say to ease his thoughts. "I have a fear, too."

"I know," his voice was calm, so maybe he wasn't as upset as she thought he might be. "You fear fire."

She sat up, her mouth opening in surprise. "No, well, not exactly… How did you…?"

He sat up to face her over the top of the glowing embers. "I figured it out. Every time you cast a flame spell, you flinch, like you can't bear to watch. Even when you're wearing armor and your face is covered, you still cringe. I can see it. I don't think anyone else can, but I do."

She nodded, accepting that he could read her so easily. She turned away to give him her profile and wrapped her arms around her knees. "It's not fire, not exactly," she said softly, staring at the furs covering her feet. "When I was little, my mother died in a fire. I barely remember her, I was so little. In fact, I don't really remember anything before that night. My father was a cripple, and for years while I was growing up, I thought he had been hurt in that fire. I came to realize later that he had been crippled long before I was born, but for most of my life, I associated that fire with his injuries. He… he didn't have an easy life, almost always in pain, unable to move like he used to, his health and strength so weak… I fear fire, because I thought it made him like that and I don't want to ever get burned or injured so badly and have to spend the rest of my life crippled and weak and dying slowly day after day for years…"

He was there, silencing her tirade against his chest. She hadn't noticed him moving, so caught up in sharing her fear that her vision had filled with flames. But feeling his arms around her, his heartbeat strong and steady in her ear, his male scent and juniper filling her nostrils, she felt safe. Her arms wrapped around him, clinging to him like an anchor, desperate to keep herself from being swept away by her overly-strong emotions. "Don't let go…"

"I'm here," he murmured. "I'm here, and you're safe. There's nothing left to do but sleep. Sleep, Gerhild. Lie down and sleep." He settled them both beneath the furs, keeping his arms around her, mumbling nonsense assurances into her braided hair. Slowly he felt the shudders leave her body, the tension draining as her arms loosened their death grip around his torso.

The silence returned, broken up only by her raspy breath as she finished battling down her emotions.

"Why do you put up with me?" she asked, bewildered, keeping her head tucked under his chin. "I've nearly gotten you killed at least a score of times. I have these…" she struggled to find a way to describe her emotional outbursts, "Strange episodes… and you're always willing to hold me even though…" she bit her lip, stopping herself before talking about his lack of interest in women. She knew he couldn't have seen it, yet his thumb came around to her face and pulled the lip free.

"Shh, don't think about it now. Just sleep."

"But I haven't ever once given you anything in return for all you've done for me."

He laughed softly, moving her head still on his chest. "Oh, so a new set of stalhrim armor didn't mean anything? And I suppose all the times you've healed me, or my hangovers, don't count either? How about the times you've comforted me, like the night before we reached Windhelm? Don't forget, even that last adventure at the bottom of the mine, you gave me hope, kept me from going insane with fear."

Could she accept what he said as the truth, she thought to herself, that she helped him as much as he helped her? At last she lifted her face up towards his, and could see in those deep brown eyes that he was sincere.

"We have a partnership, you and I," he continued to explain. "There are things you need help with, that I can do for you, like cooking meals." He was rewarded when a small smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. He stroked it lightly with the pad of his thumb. "And there are things you do for me, like cure hangovers or healing me after fistfights."

She rolled her eyes, "Right, Arctic Stones," she used the nickname he had been given in Windhelm due to a fistfight, "Like you ever want to be healed after a fistfight. I thought all those little scars were supposed to prove your manliness or how much respect you've earned or something."

He chuckled again. "Alright, you got me on that one. But you understand, don't you, how well we work together? This isn't one-sided, not at all, or there'd be no reason for me to stay with you, would there?"

His thumb was still stroking her chin, so she didn't chew her lip, but she was pondering a deep thought. It burned inside her like acid, and made her open her mouth, "Vorstag." She hesitated, not sure how to ask it. But if there was anyone she wanted to try it with, it was him. And he had offered once, but she hadn't been sure if he was serious or not. If only she could be sure he was willing.

"Aye." He'd been dancing around the topic of love, wanting her to see that his love was the reason he stayed with her and put up with all the shit she dragged them through. And that her love was the reason she wanted him with her. A partnership. Two people who loved each other. He willed her to see it, to say it, and when she opened her mouth, he almost didn't believe the words.

"Would you have sex with me?"

She saw the shock spread across his face, even in the ruddy light, and quickly tried to explain herself. "You said once, that when two people care about each other, that there's no pain. That they only do what feels good for the other person, and…"

"I remember what I said," he stopped her, not sure where she was coming from, or where she was going, only wishing she'd get there quickly!

"You said you'd be willing to show me," she paused to lick her lips, and he had the urge to kiss away the moisture. "I… I thought you were teasing…"

"I was serious," he assured her, "I am still serious. The offer stands, if you wanna try it with me."

"You'd be willing, even though we couldn't… with the way things stand between us… I mean you… and I…" she lamely tried to think of a way to talk about his preference for men, how she thought that would inhibit his ability to perform.

She must be referring to her inability to love him, Vorstag reasoned, even knowing how much he loved her. He swallowed, his thumb stroking her jaw. Gods, but he wanted so much more than a one-night tumble between the furs, it almost felt like physical pain. But if that was all she was ready for, he would gladly keep it to one night, just to keep from hurting her. "Aye. If this is what you want…"

"I'm not sure," she suddenly changed her mind, not knowing why, but the pained look on his face might have had something to do with it. "It was just an idea, I'm not sure I want to, Ulfric and I never got very far, I'll probably feel the panic even with you, but…" she glanced away and back again, forcing herself to hold his gaze. "But if there's anyone I want to try it with, it's you. Would you be willing?"

No, she wasn't ready tonight, not if even the possibility was making her tremble this much. "Aye, I'd be willing, whenever you're up to it."

She nodded and laid her head back down on his chest. "I don't deserve it, Vorstag, but thank you."

All the things he wanted to say, to tell her, to show her, built up inside his chest like a volcano. But he couldn't say them, wouldn't say them tonight. He'd have to wait until more progress was made. And Gerhild was making progress; she was open and honest with him, and allowed him those little insights into her soul no one else ever saw. But until she was ready to look inside her own soul, she wouldn't be ready to love him.

"Get some sleep," he heard himself say into her hair, his hand on her shoulder, the other holding her hand over his heart. It was close, and getting closer, that moment he'd been working towards. Ulfric was out of the picture, thanks to her little talk with him before they left Windhelm. He hadn't been present, but she said the Jarl had taken her request for space better than she had hoped, no doubt due to the distraction of becoming a father. Still, he wasn't going to take any chances; he'd keep them out of Windhelm for a while. Especially if she was considering him as a sexual partner. Merciful Mara, let it be soon, he prayed, a little more confident in his prayers after Stuhn had answered the one earlier that day.

For once, Vorstag wasn't plagued by worries, lying there with Gerhild in his arms. The two fell asleep almost at the same time, feeling the same security and confidence and unconcern over whatever tomorrow would bring, knowing they'd be facing it together.

* * *

Their return to Raven Rock happened in late evening. Vorstag headed to the tavern. He was renting a room there while she was being Lady Gerhild, only staying with her when she was being the Dragonborn. She parted with him reluctantly, thinking about Niyya, but quickly pushed the absurd notion aside and made for her manor.

She didn't think anyone had noticed her arrival, her armor blending into the evening shadows expertly, but some prickling sense of danger kept her alert. It might be paranoia, now that Vorstag wasn't at her back, but though she tried to brush it aside, it refused to leave. Deciding to trust her instincts, she let herself into her house very quietly, closing and locking the door with only the minimal amount of noise and movement.

Nothing was out of place. Nothing had been shifted or touched or in any way disturbed, but still her senses screamed at her that something was wrong. Cautiously she moved away from the door and circled the ground floor, but nothing was amiss. She came back to the stairs and headed down them, step by step, her war axe drawn and ready for blood.

She had reached the foot of the stairs when she heard it; someone was picking the lock of her front door. The danger wasn't within her home, but without, though in any moment it was going to be in there with her. She flitted around the corner out of sight and waited in the darkest shadows. Whoever decided to break into her home was either very brave, or very stupid, but soon to be very dead.

The lock gave way, and she made a mental note to speak with Glover about getting it replaced with something more challenging. Then silence. It surprised her, and quickly she reassessed her intruder as more brave than stupid. He was still going to end up dead.

A shadow moved at the foot of the stairs, and she had to give the other person even more credit for his abilities. Expert lock-picker, silent footsteps, and moving slow enough not to draw attention. Except, of course, for someone who was also well trained. She slipped up behind him and set her blade against his throat.

She felt the point of a dagger at her ribs, just beneath her heart. Aye, he was good, good enough to get her in check. She still had the winning move.

"Take it easy, Gerhild," Glover's voice floated out of the shadow in front of her, "I'm here on business."

"You bastard!" she cried, withdrawing her axe before giving him a shove away from her. "You gave me a fucking heart-attack!" She decided not to mention how close he had just come to being Shouted at as she pulled the veil down.

He turned to face her, sheathing his dagger and rubbing at his throat. "Believe me, I didn't want to, but I had to speak with you where no one else could see or hear. And where that mercenary of yours wasn't hanging around."

"Sellsword," she corrected absently.

"Whatever," he waved it aside. "Listen, the Northern Maiden docked yesterday morning, with a letter for you. It was addressed to me, but it was meant for you. Here." He handed over a piece of parchment, folded tightly and carefully, a strange symbol scratched over the folded ends of the paper, in place of a wax seal. The symbol was an upside-down triangle, a vertical line slicing it in half, with a circle drawn around the lowest corner.

"Danger?" she asked, deciphering the Shadowmark. Negligently she lit a torch with a flame spell, giving them some light.

"By Akatosh, what have you done to my armor!" Glover's eyes widened as the battered state of her armor became clear in the torchlight.

She broke off reading the letter to lift a delicate golden eyebrow at him. "It's my armor, now; you gave it to me, remember?"

"I forged that armor, remember? That makes it mine," he repeated, shaking a finger at her, "And you promised to come back without a scratch!" He made a show of walking around her and examining all the damage. "Are you whole?"

"Apparently," she muttered dryly.

A low whistle blew through his teeth. "You are very hard on your armor, young lady."

"Which is why I'm having an ebony set made. Was there anything else with this?"

Glover shook his head. "No. And like I said, I read it before I realized it was for you. I took the liberty of holding the ship for you, too. The Northern Maiden won't sail until you command it."

She hummed, looking down at the letter again, absently thinking the ship's captain already had orders to wait for her before sailing from Solstheim again. "When's the next high tide?"

Glover scratched the side of his face, "Tide's just heading out, now, I think. You wanna leave tonight?"

She shrugged, "I can sleep and recuperate on a ship just as easily as I can in a house. And I'm already packed," she heaved her shoulders, where her knapsack was still hanging. "All I need is Vorstag."

"You're not taking him with you," Glover objected, "Not on Thieves Guild business!"

Her stare was as cold as the grave. "Don't take me for a fool, Glover. No one knows him better than I, and I know he's not Thieves Guild material. But he knows me, and he knows better than to ask stupid questions. So, aye, I will take him with me as far as Windhelm. After that, it's none of your damn business!"

Glover still looked like he wanted to argue. "Fine. Well, just keep in mind that it's you Brynjolf needs, and he'll be wary of strangers if half of what's in that letter is true. I'm amazed he even put that much in writing. Something like this falling into the wrong hands would be…"

"Good point," she said, calmly walking over to the torch she had lit and holding the parchment to the flames. She kept it there until the letter was ash, unflinching as her fingers singed. A small healing spell took care of the redness and blisters.

He stared at her, shock and more than a little fear creeping into his features. That she had calmly stood with her fingers in flames while burning the incriminating letter, and healed herself afterwards like she had merely pricked her fingers on a rosebush…

"Was there anything else?"

The coldness in her voice unnerved him more. Silently he shook his head.

"Good, then do me a couple of favors. First, go to the Retching Netch and tell Vorstag we're sailing on the Northern Maiden just as soon as he arrives."

He nodded, with only a brief impulse of 'forgetting' to tell the mercenary so he would miss the ship. He knew she'd never leave Vorstag behind, and she would know he had been the one who didn't tell Vorstag, so there was no use even trying to keep the mercenary out of their business. "And second?"

"Replace the lock on my front door," she gestured behind him. "Something that would be hard to pick, even for you."

He nodded and almost raced out of her manor.

Gerhild didn't give him another thought, making a quick tour of her home and deciding what to take and what to leave. She had given the Black Books to Neloth, not wanting to keep them herself and maybe somewhat wishing the arrogant bastard might just get his own mind sucked dry by the Daedric Prince of Knowledge. There were the ingots of ebony sitting beside her bedroom chest, the payment for solving the mystery surrounding the mine and allowing for it to be reopened. It would be just enough to finish her kit, once she brought the ingots to Eorlund. She looked down at her battered armor and sighed, wondering if ebony would be strong enough to protect her, considering the life she led.

She put the ingots in a second pack and looked around again. She glanced at the ashes beneath the torch, and went over to rub them into the floor. Truthfully it had unnerved her to burn the letter like that, letting her fingers feel the biting heat of the flames, and she'd had to struggle to keep her emotions buried so deep inside. But it made a very dramatic impression on Glover; she doubted he would ever argue with her again. And the healing spell made everything alright, so there were no lingering injuries to fear. She checked her fingertips again, just to be sure, before extinguishing the torch.

The sun had set and evening moved on to night by the time she left her manor and locked the door behind her. Looking at the harbor, she saw the mast of the Northern Maiden rising into the night, the sails furled as it bobbed next to the docks. It was a testament to how tired she was, that she hadn't noticed it earlier. She sighed and set her course for the ship, deciding to get aboard and out of sight as quickly as possible.

The ship's captain, Gjalund Salt-Sage, met her just as she came below, a relieved sort of expression on his face, which quickly turned to despair when she announced they wouldn't leave until her friend arrived. No sooner had she made that statement, than a set of booted footsteps were heard above deck. The captain was right behind her as they headed above, to see Vorstag talking pleasantly with a couple of the crew members.

"Now can we leave, milady?" Gjalund pleaded, "Before we lose what's left of the favorable tide and have to wait here another twelve hours?"

"You got everything?"

Vorstag nodded in answer to her question, "Aye. I was only on my second mug when I got the message. Never had the chance to rent a room much less unpack. Speaking of which…"

Gerhild laughed, putting her hand on his shoulder. "Let's go below, get out of the crew's way, and see if we can't find some more mead. Captain Salt-Sage, if you would be so kind as to set sail for Windhelm, I am in a bit of a hurry."

"Aye, milady," he muttered, with a heavy amount of sarcasm.

She and Vorstag headed below to where the cabins were, near the stern of the ship. They claimed separate cabins, as they were the only passengers, and after stowing their packs, met up again for a late supper. "So, what's this all about?" he asked. "That blacksmith friend of yours—Glover?—said you were sailing right now for Windhelm and you wanted me on the ship. He even paid my tab, just so I wouldn't be delayed."

She looked down at her goblet of wine, an amenity the captain made sure to have on hand just for her. "Vorstag, you know there are friends of mine all over Skyrim, right?"

"Aye," he nodded around a mouthful of food. After washing it down with a swallow of mead, he asked, "This has something to do with a certain friend, someone you think I might not like?"

She sighed, "It's not that, exactly. I mean, I know you, I trust you, and if he knew you, he'd trust you, too, and even though he trusts me, he wouldn't trust you just because I do, because he doesn't know you, but there's no time for that, to let him get to know you, and he's asked for my help with something…"

She stopped, a chunk of bread shoved in her mouth. "You don't have to explain it," he said, now that he could get a word in edgewise. "I understand. There are some things in your life I'm not a part of, and that's alright. I don't have to be involved in everything; only where and when you need me."

She got the feeling that there was more, so much more, behind those simple words. But he was still talking, and she still had a chunk of bread between her lips. She bit down and started chewing, holding the rest of the chunk in her fingers.

"So, when we dock in Windhelm, I imagine you'll be headed off to wherever."

She swallowed, even though her mouth felt dry. Stuhn's Shield, if only she could take him with her. "Aye. I don't know how long it'll take…"

"No problem," he shrugged. "I'll head back to Markarth, make sure everything's going good there. When you get done with whatever you need to do, come get me and we'll travel together again."

"Just like that?"

"Aye," he smiled, his soft brown eyes warm with emotion.

She had to pull her gaze away, dropping her eyes to her plate, not able to look at him. She spoke softly to the half-eaten salmon steak before her, "You promise you won't take any other jobs?"

"Oh, I might, one or two, just for appearances sake," he teased her before turning serious, "But I won't accept any job that will take too long or take me too far away from Markarth. I'll be there, when you need me again."

She lifted her gaze back up to him, feeling better though she couldn't say why exactly. Actually, she couldn't say anything. She sat there and watched him finish his supper and drink, all the while thinking what a confounding puzzle Vorstag was, and wondering why she like hanging around him so much despite the headache.


	14. The Moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls…  
> Wait! Boys and girls?! Hey, no underage readers aloud. I mean it. Go to bed. Now!  
> …  
> *footsteps running away, bedroom doors slamming*  
> Where was I? Oh, right! *ahem* May I present: The Moment

This was stupid.

She was standing in the passageway, at night, wearing her sleeveless tunic, leggings and boots, but not her armor. She should be sleeping, getting as much rest as she could before they reached Windhelm. The ship was already on the river, riding the tide to the city. They’d reach the docks in a few hours, just before sunrise, and she planned to leave as soon as the ship was moored. Not much time for sleep.

Not much time for this, either.

She wondered if that was why she had waited, why she had put it off until the last possible moment, subconsciously hoping that if she came to this place late enough, there wouldn’t be time and she could put it off again. Aye, this was stupid, she was stupid, but she had already spent so much thought on this. She had spent hours in her cabin, had reasoned this, worked the issue through from every angle, postulated and weighed all the options, all the possible outcomes…

No more stalling.

Regardless of how he acted or what he felt, he said he would do this. For her. The why still eluded her, the reasons and motives behind his offer still an unfathomable mystery to her. Perhaps that was why she hesitated, why she stood there in the passageway outside his door with her hand raised, her knuckles mere inches from the wood…

Just knock.

The sound wasn’t loud, but she jumped, startled because she had actually knocked. Merciful Mara, what was she doing? She found herself hoping he’d be asleep already, but there was a muffled answer and the sound of bare feet shuffling across the wooden planks. Then the door opened.

Vorstag stared at the vision framed in the doorway. It was just like he had been imagining, what he had been imagining every night since that night in Skaal Village. He wondered for a moment if he had fallen asleep, and this was just a dream, but it was too good to be true even in a dream. Any moment something would happen to ruin this: Ulfric would appear at the end of the passageway and she’d turn to him, or a dragon would attack the ship and sink them in the river. That was how dreams ended.

But no one and nothing appeared. There was only Gerhild, looking lost and scared and in need, looking to him for answers to questions she couldn’t ask, questions she couldn’t find the words for, questions she couldn’t understand—but she knew he held the answers.

Vorstag was standing before her. He must have been getting ready for bed, the lacings undone and his tunic untucked from his leggings, his feet bare on the cold floor. But now he just stood there, looking at her with an expression she couldn’t decipher. The look both unnerved and excited her, sending a guilty shot down her throat and into her chest, making her want to try to explain herself yet again. “I don’t know why I’m here,” she whispered hastily. “There are only a few hours before we dock, and then I’ll be gone, probably before you wake…”

“Aye,” he tried to stop her, but she kept talking.

“And only the gods know how long before we’ll see each other again, what I have to do is so dangerous, and could include a bit of travel, and I have no idea how long it’ll take before I can join you in Markarth…”

“We’ve been over that,” he agreed, opening the door wider and stepping aside to invite her in. One had to be gentle in dealing with Gerhild, not force her but invite her, not demand but offer. But he’d be damned before he let her slip through his fingers tonight!

“I… I want to know, I want to feel what others feel, I want to understand it, how it should be, but I don’t want this to be… awkward… or make things weird between us, it’s just tonight, one night, that’s all I’m asking, no strings, no expectations…”

Enough of this. “I know, Gerhild. I understand. And I’ve accepted it, the situation between us. I’ll take whatever you have to offer me, however little or much, and not expect anything more than you want to give.” He held his hand out to her, willing her to take it.

His words confused her slightly; were they still talking about the same thing? But his hand was there, hanging in the space between them. All she had to do was take it.

Why did she hesitate? He wasn’t Ulfric. He was Vorstag. He knew her and understood her and accepted her the way she was. He never pressured her to try to change—he never pressured her to do anything. True, Ulfric understood the Dragonborn side of her, unlike Vorstag who could never understand. But Vorstag accepted what he didn’t understand, where Ulfric ignored whatever part of her he didn’t understand.

There really was no comparison between them. And that being said, there really was no reason to think the panic would surface with Vorstag. He didn’t expect anything more from her, like love or marriage or children. He was willing, because she was interested in it. He offered, because they shared a similar experience, and he had gotten over his pain and moved on, and was willing to show her how. Even if he preferred the dagger, he wasn’t so disgusted by the sheath that he’d turn her away; hadn’t he proven that to her? Wasn’t he proving it now? She knew how far she could push him before he balked; she’d pushed him too far before. And he wasn’t balking now, he wasn’t arguing, he wasn’t upset. He was Vorstag.

Enough of this, she thought to herself. She hadn’t taken that horrid-tasting potion of Bothela’s for nothing! He was holding his hand out, inviting her in, with that charming smile on his lips. Just take his hand. She lifted her hand and set it on his, felt his fingers close around hers as he pulled her inside, felt her arm stretch before her feet finally kicked into gear.

He stepped up close to her, his hand pushing the door closed as he moved in for the first of many kisses. Brief, chaste, pure, just a sample, a taste, a promise of what was to come. His lips were warm against hers, and she wondered if she felt as cool to him as he felt warm to her, and if she did feel so cold, why he would even consider this…

“No more,” he whispered, though there was no one to hear but each other. As if he could read her mind, he began shooting down her arguments before she could voice them. “No doubts,” he kissed the wrinkle that had formed between her eyebrows. “No questions,” he pressed his lips against her cheek. “No worries,” he found her ear next, and she discovered how sensitive the skin was just behind it. “You want this. I want this. That’s all that matters tonight.”

“But what about…”

“No talking,” he added, two fingers pressing her lips closed. After a moment, when he felt confident she might actually keep quiet for once, he removed the fingers and burrowed them into her hair. She had let her hair down, the strands so curled from being almost constantly braided, that they fell in a twisting maze of locks down her back. He lifted his hand, weighing the heavy mass, feeling the silkiness as it fell through his fingers like water. Stroking her scalp, he tilted her head into a better position for another kiss.

She was lost, swept along by a string of events she had unwittingly set in motion. No, she had purposefully set these events in motion, but she hadn’t realized how strong they would be, how tempting, how easy it turned out to be to lose herself within the moment, the act, the sensations…

Divine Dibella, the sensations! She had felt some of this before with Ulfric, the quickening heartbeat, the tightness and wetness, even the gooseflesh that prickled her skin in waves. Yet it was different tonight. It was… natural, comfortable, not an act or a planned attack, but casual cooperation. Vorstag held her head and kissed her; she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back.

His other hand trailed down her spine to caress her buttocks; her lips parted to slip her tongue out from between her teeth.

His hand stroked up her side, his knuckles sliding across her ribcage, feeling each and every ridge through the thin fabric of her tunic.

Her hands lowered from his neck and down the front of his chest, feeling his hardened muscles clench and flex beneath her palms.

It was different than with Ulfric. Ulfric worshiped her, paid homage to her scars and her body, touched and caressed and kissed and adored. And when she touched him, he’d moan and shudder and gasp. But it had always been one or the other, a turn taking, and staged to make her feel above him, better than him.

That was it. Ulfric tried to make it into something. Something else.

Vorstag was Vorstag. Her friend. Her companion. Someone she trusted with her life, to watch her back, to know what she needed when she needed it. And she had done the same for him. Because they were friends. Companions. Partners.

Where Ulfric tried to exalt her, Vorstag treated her as an equal.

No pressure to perform, to succeed, to make progress where she felt stymied. He accepted her, whatever she had and wherever she was, and allowed her to grow in her own direction.

“You’re thinking again.”

She opened her cool, deep violet eyes to find him watching her, and realized he had been standing still for several moments. Her eyes had been closed, her mind lost in her deep thoughts, and she hadn’t noticed that he’d stopped. His words brought a guilty blush to her cheeks. “Aye,” she admitted, dropping her gaze. Immediately his hand was cupping her chin, his thumb holding her lip free of her teeth.

“What about?” Even his thumb was warm against her skin. How could he stand to be so close to her, if she was so cold? But she didn’t pull away, she didn’t try to dissuade him, as she was selfish. She found that she craved his fire, how his touch burned her skin, how it brought a flushed heat into her soul.

“I…” she stopped herself, instinctively thinking it would be a bad idea to mention Ulfric at that moment. But her mind was too sluggish, too intoxicated by the simple touch, for her to think of some clever substitute. “I can’t put it into words…” She ended with a sad little shake of her head.

Love, he thought to himself, willing her to see it. He couldn’t tell her she was feeling love; she’d never accept it unless she discovered it for herself. So he pretended indifference and shrugged, giving her even more time to discover it. “No thinking,” he decreed, adding to his earlier list. She smiled, an embarrassed giggle hiccoughing in her throat, and his smile grew warmer. Then his lips descended again.

She gave up thinking for the moment—there’d be plenty of time to think as she traveled tomorrow—and let herself feel and react however the mood struck her. His hands cupped her face, tilting her head until their lips met easily. She was only a few inches shorter than him, and with her face upturned and his neck a little bent, they fit together perfectly. She could taste mead on his lips, sweet and intoxicating, and her head began to spin.

She needed air, needed to breathe, as she found herself holding her breath for their kiss. She inhaled through her nose, her mouth obviously occupied, and her nostrils filled with his scent. Sweat and leather and juniper, familiar and comfortable and as necessary to her as air—it was pure Vorstag. A vibration, started within her soul, grew in strength and volume until it became manifest in her vocal chords.

He heard the little noise she made, somewhere between a coo and a sigh, and couldn’t help but feel pleased with himself, knowing he had caused it. No, she wasn’t going to back out now and leave this half finished. She wasn’t going to feel the panic or the pain she had felt other times with other men. They were going to spend this night together, and even though tomorrow they’d go separate ways, he knew she would come back to him, even if she didn’t yet know the reason why.

He felt her hands gripping the sides of his tunic, bunching the fabric in her fists, trying to find the lower hem. He almost chuckled when she gave up and just started pulling what she had up towards his shoulders. He broke their kiss, lifting his arms while bending forwards to help her remove the clothing. And he stood before her while she studied his form in the light of the single lantern swaying gently from the ceiling. Hesitantly she reached out to touch his chest, to feel the contours of muscles beneath the dusting of hair. Her fingers traced three long, faint scars where a troll had once struck him. He tried, he honestly tried to stay still and let her explore, but her touch stung him, shocked him with a lightning spell that sent jolts of energy to his groin.

She was exploring, learning his body as it was revealed to her, bit by agonizing bit, through her fingers and her lips. Her technique was a sadly strange concoction of jaded innocence, of wanting something she’d never quite had before, but had suffered several times already. He tried to let her do what she wanted for as long as she wanted, but there was only so much a man could take. He gripped her tunic in his long-fingered fists, and though he wanted to tear the fabric from her torso, he wasn’t going to be rough with her, not tonight or any night. Insistent, maybe, thorough, definitely, but hurtful, never! He tugged the tunic free of her belt and raised it over her shoulders.

She did as he had done, stepping back and tilting so the tunic came off her body easily. Then it was her turn to try to stand still as his hands explored what was ungrudgingly revealed for his scrutiny. He traced an imaginary line where a scar had once been, a scar given to her by a Hagraven during the same adventure he had gotten the scars from the troll. She had been severely injured, sliced open from her collarbone above her left breast and across her chest and finally down the ribs on her right side. He marveled at the unblemished skin without any ridge or discoloring, even going so far as to make her lift her arm and turn so he could trace his fingers down her ribcage.

Gerhild flinched suddenly, pulling her arm in close to her side and taking half a step away. She looked at him with wide, deep blue eyes, her mouth opened slightly. “Oh, no, no, don’t you dare!” she breathed.

He gave her that shit-eating grin, just as she expected, but then straightened his features and set one hand over his heart. “I promise I’m not gonna tickle you, not on purpose, anyway.” And not tonight. But he was going to remember this juicy little fact. She watched him, her arms tight at the sides of her ribcage, but he really wasn’t going to tickle her. Instead he stepped close to her again, wrapped his arms around her, and held her for another kiss.

His hands roved the skin of her back, feeling the jumbled lines marring her flesh, starting at her shoulder blades and disappearing below the waist of her leggings. He didn’t focus on these scars, but on her skin as a whole. He didn’t trace them, draw attention to them, so much as he traced her toned muscles and narrowing waist. His hands went lower, spreading across her hips and ass, warming her though the fabric. She made that small cooing noise again and folded herself against him.

Unable to resist any longer, he brought one hand around between them, reaching up to encase a pale breast. Immediately gooseflesh erupted throughout the area, tightening the sensitive skin even further. He felt the small, pebble-like nipple beneath the base of a finger, and rubbed the finger back and forth across it. Again she made that small noise, and he began to wonder if he had a screamer on his hands. Gods, that would be embarrassing. He could only imagine what it would be like, the Dragonborn Shouting at the height of her climax. Yet again he was thankful that she had learned secret knowledge out of that one Black Book that allowed her to Shout at him and not do him any harm.

He set that aside for now and focused on what was at hand, literally. With one hand behind her and one in front, he slowly bent her backwards, supporting her, but making her arch her back. Then he leaned forwards, his lips and teeth and tongue taking over for his fingers on her breast. She shuddered, she whimpered, but she made no move to stop him. Instead the fingers of both hands wound themselves in his hair and held him in place.

Thought was beyond her ability at the moment, sensation overloading her mind and leaving no room for reason. His tenderness and attentions were far greater than she had expected, greater than she could have imagined. There was no comparison to that clumsy first kiss he gave her the day they had been tallying the score between them, who had saved whom more times. This was more like the kiss he gave her when he left her in Windhelm, the kiss that was so full of… something like desire?… she couldn’t bear to think about it. Just as she couldn’t bear to think about it now. But instead of shutting down and turning cold and dead, instead of pushing away all thought and emotion, tonight she let the emotions swell to push away all thought.

Soft fur caressed her skin, and she couldn’t have said when he had laid her on the bed, nor could she have cared. She opened her eyes—she didn’t even notice when she had closed them—to find him looming over her, not in a threatening manner, but like a protective spirit. He was watching her, simply watching and enjoying the play of emotion across her features. He kissed her again, lightly and briefly, pulling back before she was through, causing her to lift her head and follow. His soft chuckle filled her ears, warming her from within, making her smile as she settled her head on the pillow.

He continued to hold himself still, watching her expectantly. She didn’t know if she was supposed to do something or say something, and the moment stretched on. Then with a start it hit her, and her eyes widened with surprise for the second time that night.

“Gerhild…?”

“It’s alright,” she whispered, silencing his concern. He was holding himself above her, nestled between her legs, pressing his crotch against hers, and there was no pain or panic or fear. The very position she feared, the act that always—always!—increased that tightness until it became unbearable… It wasn’t there, and even its absence hadn’t been noted by her, so caught up in the moment and the man. “I’m alright.”

Reassured, he bent down and resumed their kiss.

Vorstag wanted to groan with a longing so strong it bordered on pain. That they had gotten this far was nothing short of a miracle, but he cautioned himself not to plunge headlong into anything. They were still wearing their leggings; everything could change the moment she felt his cock against her, skin on skin, heat against wet. With that in mind, he changed tactics. He had been letting her take the lead, but what he planned to do next would take all control out of her hands. And how she handled it would tell him everything.

He left off their kiss, smiling when she tried to follow again, and relented enough to give her a small peck, telling her without words to trust him, that he knew what he was doing. Her head rested against the pillow, her dark-gold hair fanning out to drape over the side of the bed. Her eyes were opened just far enough to allow her to peek at him through her lashes. They were glistening, he couldn’t tell if from passion or tears or joy, or a little of everything. Probably a little of everything, knowing the overwhelming strength of her emotions—the main reason she kept herself protected within that layer of ice. The ice he had finally broken through.

He shifted lower, his mouth descending to cover her skin, to dampen the heavy breasts with kisses, sending waves of gooseflesh over her as he gently blew on the wet skin. She squirmed but made no move to stop him, enjoying the sensation, reveling in the FEEL of it all. He moved lower still, sliding his body against hers, trailing his tongue behind him. He paused a while to lap at her navel, and felt her hands tugging in his hair, trying to pull him away as her abdominals twitched and twisted. So, she had more than one ticklish spot. He’d have to remember to look for any more, some day when they had the time…

No, he wouldn’t think of time tonight. He wouldn’t think that they were soon to be apart, for the gods only knew how long. The fact remained that they were together, here and now, and that was what mattered. The future, the world, was shut outside his cabin, and would remain so for the duration of this moment that was theirs.

His deft fingers found her belt buckle, making short work of unfastening it. Then with deliberate slowness, his fingers gripped the waistband, watching her breasts move with her breaths, her glazed eyes still on him. He gave a suggestive tug, and she braced her heels and lifted her hips off the bed just far enough for him to peel the fabric away. The soft leather came off easily, revealing more creamy skin and a few scars. He saw the marks before his eyes and felt them beneath his fingers, but he wasn’t going to draw attention to them. The last thing she needed right then was to be reminded of pain, of the pain that started all of her troubles. He continued with his plan, the leggings now bunched at her knees. He laughed to himself for being dumb enough not to have removed her boots before the leggings, but he did now so he could, at long last, have her completely open and revealed before him, beneath him.

She should have felt self-conscious, she supposed, all her flaws and scars laid bare to Vorstag. But that was one thing she didn’t feel. He was the one man who could see through every act, who could read every telltale sign—no matter how minuscule—and know what she was thinking, know what she was needing. He knew her already, intimately, and this was just one more level for him to know. That he had been willing still surprised her, that he had turned out to be so knowledgeable amazed her, but these little observances couldn’t form into any coherent conclusions just then. His fingers were dancing over her skin, sliding up the outside of her calves, crossing her knees, as light as breath on the inside of her thighs. The pressure increased minimally, and of its own will her body responded, spreading her legs for him like a flower opening its petals to the sun.

He touched the swelling folds of skin at the apex of her legs, spreading the moisture with his fingertips. Just above them he touched the tiny bud that was the core of her being, brushed against it like a summer breeze. Through his subtle ministrations she felt her body grow bolder, acting of its own will. Her hands clutched the blanket beneath her; her toes curled, trying to do the same. The wetness grew as his fingers continued relentlessly, ceaselessly, dipping back often to use her moisture against her. She shuddered when the sensations of heat and excitement spread, hardening her nipples even further. Sweat broke out over her whole body, accompanied by a musky scent that was all her.

She moaned when his tongue took the place of his fingers.

It was hard to breathe, hard to remember to breathe. Her lungs labored to draw in the air, wheezing past a throat constricted with passion. All of her, every last part, even down to the tiny hairs of her lashes, became focused on that one area. Just as he remained focused there, his mouth warm and wet and—ah gods—so very agile. Something new was building inside her, something different and exciting and terrifying and powerful and addictive and oh so right and…

It happened. Her breath hitched in her throat as everything stopped, as time ceased, even the heartbeat pounding in her ears. The next moment, with a gentle shudder, she felt herself—her whole being—implode, compacting down to that tiny core, no larger than the head of a needle, somewhere deep inside her. Even this infinite moment was over in a flash as she felt herself burst apart into a million tiny dust motes, spreading her being wide across the face of Nirn, over the surface of the heavens, stretched until she felt she could never find all the pieces and put herself back together. She was unmade as completely as possible, and she was satisfied.

Vorstag watched her, raised above her and to the side, his head resting on one hand while the other rested on her hip. She was lying there, her bow-shaped lips parted to pant away the excess. Her eyes were closed, her eyebrows both scrunched and lifted as if she couldn’t make up her mind what to feel. Her skin sparkled with tiny beads of sweat, and her Amulet of Stendarr had fallen to lay on the pillow beside her neck. She was, in a word, perfect.

Eventually, though, this perfect image changed, as all things do. She opened her eyes and blinked, as if amazed to find herself still alive. She turned to see him smiling at her. It wasn’t the full-of-himself smile he liked to flash at her from time to time, just to say that he was going to enjoy himself regardless of what she might think. But an open smile, friendly, welcoming, full of concern and warmth and love.

Her thoughts were still absent, her body reacting of its own will. She reached up and pulled his head down for a kiss, languid and lingering. He let himself enjoy it, get distracted by it, only to chuckle into her mouth when he realized she was trying to undo his belt one-handed. He helped her, and a moment later she was kneeling beside him, brushing the leggings down his thighs to get bunched around his calves. Her tug became a yank, but the fabric seemed stuck. Fearing she might decide to rip them, Vorstag took her hands in his and brought them up to his chest, leaning back so she lay half beside and half on top of him. Then he discreetly began working his feet free.

She kissed him, fully intending to take her turn now to tease his body. She rubbed the palms of her hands over his chest, feeling his reactions to her light touch, and perhaps it was possible she was slightly curious if he might be ticklish in a few areas. He remained distinctly non-giggly, though that wasn’t to say he was non-responsive. He trembled beneath her fingers, he sighed beneath her lips.

He grunted when her elbow slipped and she accidentally whacked his groin.

She felt like giggling; Vorstag and his protection of his sweetmeats. Ever since he had seen her take down a man with a swift kick from behind, he had modified his codpiece to cover that particular oversight. And he wore the damn thing constantly. She didn’t know why he was so oversensitive about that area, but she refrained from teasing him about it. It was obviously an important matter to him, so she kept a straight face and began undoing the ties holding it in place.

He let her, just watching, stroking her back where he could reach. She showed no signs of hesitation, or trepidation, as she removed the armor and underlying loincloth. She was a little curious, especially as his current mental state was so plainly apparent. Then she remembered she wasn’t supposed to be thinking tonight, and pushed the puzzle aside for a later date.

Now he was as revealed as she, more so as he wore no Amulet, lying there in nothing but his tattoo. She should feel… No, there was nothing she should feel, nothing she ought to feel, nothing scripted or fated. This was different, new, like that moment he gave her just a little while ago. She wondered if she could return the favor, and looking down, she wrapped her fingers around his cock and began to move, slowly, gently, mimicking the act of fucking with her hand.

Divine Dibella, but he was going to lose it in just a few seconds. Yet he couldn’t make her stop, as she was simply learning, experimenting, testing out ideas and making small discoveries. He didn’t want to inhibit that, to force her to stop without knowing why, to confuse her and possibly discourage her. But if she continued…

“…Gerhild…” Her name was a prayer on his lips, a plea, and she looked up, her brow wrinkled with confusion. The expression quickly cleared, once she saw his face, hair plastered to his temples with sweat. She realized she was playing with fire, pushing him too far too fast. Her hand fell away, though no further than his hip, and she leaned over to kiss him. The softness of her mouth molded against his firmness, moved and stretched and opened, allowing deeper access while doing her own exploration. She felt him grip her shoulders, rubbing their torsos together and making her skin tingle. She cooed again, unable to keep herself silent, and he knew she would be ready soon.

He rolled their bodies so she lay beneath him. He lined himself up between her legs, and finally managed to kick the last of his leggings from his ankle. Then he loomed over her once more, and still—amazingly—there was nothing in her features that showed any sign of discomfort, either physical or emotional. After all the fears and anxieties, all the attempts and failures, one could easily assume the pain had become second nature. But there was none of that now. Tonight was going to be a success. And he, Vorstag, had given her this triumph.

He couldn’t believe his good fortune. Part of him still suspected this was a dream, still expected Ulfric or a dragon or a tidal wave or some other disaster to happen and interrupt this night. Part of him still expected her to have to stop and think, or feel the pain and panic return, or change her mind for some enigmatic reason and get up and leave him. But they remained undisturbed, just the two of them, on the cusp of this eternal moment.

He had been acutely aware of every sound she made, every twitch or tremble, ever alert for any sign that she was no longer enjoying this. Even now, as he held his shaft just outside her body, his fingers once more performing their dance on that area of concentrated desire, he watched and listened to make sure she was feeling only pleasure. After tonight, for however long they were going to be apart, he was going to make damn sure she would not forget him—forget this moment. The tension was mounting in him, making his muscles tremble, his skin positively soaking with sweat due to his efforts to hold himself back. But he was determined she was going to enjoy this duo part as much as she had her solo part.

Again she found herself barely able to breathe, and every breath she took was filled with a heady, vinous scent. It was from Vorstag. His scent was overwhelming, filling her lungs, soaking in through her skin, infusing her mind, marking her as permanently as a branding iron. It was a concentrated version of his usual scent, but without the added juniper from his soap or leather from his armor. These lesser scents that had become associated with him were gone, overridden by this distilled essence of Vorstag. She breathed him into her being, her soul, and he remained within her as securely as the dragon souls she absorbed.

“…Gerhild…”

He moaned her name, her name on those thin lips, vibrating through his thick neck, rumbling from within his wide chest. It was a question, a quest for reassurance, a plea for permission…

“Vorstag!”

She gasped his name for an answer. When he didn’t immediately act, she took matters into her own hands, moving her hips, starting the motion for him, enveloping the flared head of his cock within her folds. It was his turn to gasp and, unable to stop, he finished the motion.

He watched her, fascinated, as her eyes rolled back into her head, her bow-shaped lips parted slightly and wet. She was panting, her breath staggering in and out of her lungs. It didn’t take long for it to start, beginning with a startled gasp, a slight hitch after a partial inhalation. As in everything else she did, it seemed she put her whole body and mind and soul into the occasion. The violence of her actions was countered by the subtleness of her sounds. He waited for her to tip over the edge and plummet into the abyss, before he let himself fall in after her.

The first thing she became aware of was a weight sprawled over more than half of her body, deliciously heavy and warm. Every so often a puff of a breeze fell across her upper chest, accompanied by the sweet smell of mead. That strong, vinous scent was there as well, making her feel sated and longed for and secure.

“…Vorstag…” Her breath was a sigh, fanning the mane of hair beside her cheek.

There was a twitch for a response, somewhere down where their bodies were still joined, reminding her of that feeling of fullness she had just enjoyed.

“Vorstag?”

“Aye,” his words were slurred against her skin, “Think that’s me.”

“That was… when you… and we… is it always…?” She couldn’t put her question into words. Never having experienced such bliss before, she was unable to think of anything to use for comparison.

“Hnnnnghhhh.”

She giggled, she couldn’t help herself, the good feeling was so warm and full of sunlight. His head bounced on her chest, brushing his hair against her chin and tickling her, which only made her want to giggle more, which would only lead to more tickling… She barely managed to get control before matters spiraled into that unending loop. She stroked a hand across his back, her fingertips leaving tracks in the sweat.

“I think I understand now, how women can do this,” she mused, sounding lighthearted and hopeful.

The words were strange, and the tone so out of character for Gerhild, that he had to lean upwards and look at her face. In the swaying lantern light she was lying still, a small mysterious smile on her lips, her dimples marring her flushed cheeks. Her delicate golden eyebrows were curved with surprise, and her deep violet eyes were shining with life. If he thought she looked perfect before, he had been mistaken; now she was flawless.

“Is it always so… intensely pleasurable?”

He suppressed the chuckle, not wanting her to think he was laughing at her, but her choice of words was humorous. Her reaction to her—for all intents and purposes—‘first time’ was so purely innocent, so unequally enjoyable that he wanted to smile. He couldn’t help but feel good about it, because she had chosen him to share it with her. His fingers drew lazy circles on her front as he answered, honestly, “No, probably not, I mean, not sure, but I don’t think it can be that good every time.”

“You enjoyed it?”

He moaned, dropping his head onto the top of one breast. She laughed, stammering a response, “I’m sorry, I mean, obviously you did, because you… ya know, but I just didn’t think, with the way things are, I mean, that you would find this, that this would, ah, fuck it!”

“Hmm,” he said into her skin, having taken a pinkish nipple into his mouth while she had been stuttering, since it was conveniently close. “Sounds like a good idea.”

“What did you say?” she asked, the smile was refusing to leave her lips. She hadn’t quite heard him, his words having been distorted by having his mouthful of her flesh, and her mental abilities impaired by the sensations he was causing her. She dug her fingers into his hair to pull his face up, just long enough for him to answer.

“I said: ‘Sounds like a good idea’.”

She was startled enough by his answer to let go of him, and he immediately picked up where he had left off.

“Merciful Mara,” she muttered.

He hummed an agreement, moving to the other side, trying to give both breasts an equal amount of attention.

She wanted to ask him what he was doing… she wanted to ask him why he would… she wanted to… um… ask… ah… she wanted…

Vorstag smiled to himself, his mouth too occupied to make the gesture—he’d finally found a way to get her to stop thinking and shut up!

Gerhild realized on a level deeper than thought that she had bitten off more than she could chew. By asking this of Vorstag, by opening that door, she had started something… Ah, gods, that feels good! …no, wait… She needed to think, she needed to breathe, and in an effort to regain some control and get a little time and space to find her bearings, she flipped their positions.

Vorstag grimaced, a small grunt oofed out of his chest when her weight fell against his gut, her legs gripping his sides to maintain leverage. Her move had been so sudden and purposeful, he wasn’t sure if they were still making love or had started a wrestling match. Undeterred, he tried to lean upwards and kiss her, but she braced her hands on his shoulders and squeezed her fingers a little too hard.

“Just… wait… a moment… let me… breathe…” Her eyes were large and dark as midnight, her bow-shaped lips parted and wet, her bosom rising and falling temptingly with each haggard breath. Her amulet dangled between the mounds, the upturned horn swaying back and forth mesmerizingly, tauntingly. Divine Dibella, but he wasn’t through with her yet, and he was afraid what she might do if he gave her any room for thought. Time to distract her with another aspect of lovemaking, one for which she had inadvertently positioned herself perfectly.

“Why?” he asked, his face full of boyish impulsiveness as his fingers interlaced with hers, loosening her grip on his shoulders. “You’re positively glowing when you’re out of breath,” he slid her hands off of him and onto the bed, dropping her face a few inches closer, her hair falling around them like a curtain, “Sweaty and disheveled,” he stretched his arms above his head, pulling her arms with them and bending her even lower, “Flushed with passion.”

Their lips met, and she abandoned the glittering of an idea that had been tickling at the back of her mind. Whatever she had been trying to reason out didn’t matter, not right then, not with what little time remained for the two of them. And she wanted to make every moment count! What he was giving her was too precious to waste.

He finally allowed her to pull her hands away, confident that she was done with thinking for at least the time being. Her fingertips stroked the inside of his arms, but he refused to give in to the twitch and let her know she found where he was ticklish, not willing to let her take that advantage away from him! She had remained on top, straddling his waist, and between their kisses and their caresses, it wasn’t going to be long before he’d be ready to go again.

She felt it, too. The hardness had never quite completely left his member, and it was soon back in full force. An answering ache opened up deep inside her, and she quickly deduced—even with her limited experience—that she would be ready before too long. She pulled up from their kiss, her eyes alight with a silent yet insistent question, but could find no answer in his features that she could understand. She made a little noise, glancing off to the side of the bed. He didn’t answer other than to take her shoulders and pull her back down to his lips. She kissed him willingly, but still that question remained. She wiggled her hips suggestively, but apparently he still wasn’t taking the hint. She decided to take charge, and started to lean over to one side so he could roll on top of her.

Vorstag yanked her back in place, his hands on her shoulders and a leg braced against the wall, keeping her on top. She tried to slide off a couple more times, until he ended her attempts by wrapping one arm around her shoulders and the other on her ass, holding her firmly against his front. She finally managed to pull back, her bow-shaped lips dampened with their ardor, just far enough to whisper a single word. “But…”

He pecked her, stopping any further words before they could slip out. She closed her mouth, a little petulantly, and he allowed himself another nip at the pout. Cautiously he let go, as if afraid she might still slip away, but she stayed where he set her. He brought his hands up to languidly stroke the sides of her shoulders and back through her hair. Then he waited. She remained silent, and still, simply watching him and wondering with those soft, deep blue eyes. When he was sure that he had her full attention, and that she hadn’t figured it out for herself, he shifted just a little bit, nudging at her entrance with his cock. Her lips parted, forming a word but no sound came. He repeated it, once, twice, thrice, pausing each time to see…

He saw the moment she finally got the hint, her eyebrows lifting in wonder and surprise. “Oh.”

“Oh,” he agreed, that self-satisfied smiling stealing across his features before he could stop it. Gods, but he loved how expressive she could be once she let herself feel, how a little surprise could overwhelm her, or a small discovery awaken new ideas.

“I didn’t think, I mean, that actually could work?”

He chuckled. He simply couldn’t help himself. “Aye, as long as the dagger’s in the sheath…”

“I get it. I get it.” He watched her blush a furious red as her eyes glittered, considering strategies. She was such a mixture of minx and maiden, of pain and innocence, it made him ache with longing. “So, I just go like this…” She shifted her legs, angling her hips to ease access. Then she skimmed lower, sliding his dagger into her moist and readied sheath.

He pushed his head back into the pillow, the sensations overwhelming him for once, as she made all the efforts. “Aye…”

The look on his face made her stop suddenly. Fearing she might have moved too fast or too hard or bent it somehow, she cupped his face in her hands. Her torso rested on top of his, his labored breath moving her up and down and brushing the hair of his chest against her sensitive nipples, as she tried to find out what she had done wrong. “Did I hurt you?” He shook his head in answer to her question, but kept his eyes closed. “It’s just that you look like you’re in pain…”

“Nope,” he grimaced, “Not pain. Just trying not to finish too soon.” His hands fell to her hips, encouraging her to remain still for a little bit longer.

“What should I do?”

The question was so honest, so full of concern and consideration for his plight, he opened his eyes to look at her. She was staring at him, her face full of care, her hands stroking his sweat-plastered hair from his temples. She was so hypersensitive to this act being hurtful, that she couldn’t tell a grimace of pain from a grimace of pleasure. He tried to school his features as he sought for a way through this temporary setback. The answer came to him, and he gave her hips a little pat before his hands fell away. Then he was taking hold of her hands, palms facing, lacing their fingers together. A boyish little grin split his thin lips as he commanded, “Sit up.”

She tilted her head, not quite believing what he had just said. He was serious, though, and shoved their hands a little ways off the bed in emphasis. As she remained leaning over him, along his length, his hands crept higher and higher, bringing hers with them, showing he was serious. Her eyebrows curled with confusion and hesitation. He raised his eyebrows like he was asking her why she would keep questioning him. A bit sheepishly she did as he suggested, bracing her hands against his, and sat up. A small gasp escaped her as his cock reached just that little bit more…

Her head rolled back on her shoulders, exposing her throat submissively. He tightened his grip on her hands even more, afraid she was going to faint and not wanting her to fall backwards, but she managed to regain some control over her neck muscles and looked back down at him. He held onto her hands, ever watchful, making sure she would be able to keep her position. She smiled, softly, tenderly, her eyes only a little glazed, reassuring him she wasn’t about to pass out.

He started slowly, an easy and gentle rise and fall, just to let her know he was there. She followed his lead, matched his rhythm, small and relaxed like the waves in a bath. He let go of her hands, still watchful in case she swayed, but she looked like she was going to keep her balance. His fingers played over her skin, raising up gooseflesh yet again, increasing the tingling and the tightness and the anticipation and the heat. Her hands were on his forearms giving him tender guidance, letting him know where to touch and how lightly and for how long. He willingly did as she bid, if only to elicit those innocent gasps and hungry whimpers from deep within her soul.

It was too difficult to lie there, beneath her, while she experienced those things she had once feared were denied to her, those emotions and sensations she had thought were so farfetched as to be mythical. Watching her discover the truth, discover her own sensuality, only made him want to experience them with her. With a small grunt for the effort, he sat up, enveloping her within his arms, keeping her on his lap, maintaining their rhythm. He caught her gasp of surprise with a kiss, felt her tremble through his hands caressing her back. He noted every sign, kept track of every response, and set their pace accordingly.

He got there first this time, his movements becoming stuttered, matching his breath. She followed a heartbeat later, leaning back just a little further in his arms as she held her breath, her face lifted to the ceiling. He felt her limbs go limp afterwards, and he pulled her sweat-filmed body close to his. He cradled her in his arms as he laid back down, draping her across his front, tucking her head beneath his chin. He felt her breath tickle the hairs on his chest, deep and steady, and knew she was relaxed almost to the point of sleep. He stroked her spine, from neck down as far as he could reach, smoothening her hair. She stirred in a languid manner, and even with his eyes closed, with the scent of lavender and dragonblood and sweat that was uniquely Gerhild filing his nostrils, he roused himself enough to get ready to answer whatever question couldn’t wait.

“Vorstag?”

He inhaled again through his nose before answering, “…Aye?”

Stuhn’s Shield, what did she want to say? What did she want to ask? There were so many questions, so many thoughts colliding that she couldn’t make them settle down into anything coherent. In frustration she pushed the thoughts away, selfishly wanting to enjoy this, to feel this, for as long as it lasted. The questions would keep for another day. She grew quiet, listening to his heartbeat in her ear as she drew designs in the short dark hairs covering his chest, her mind absorbed with the here and now.

He didn’t press her to finish, thinking he already knew what it was, and she already knew it, too. Love. Pure and simple and unbreakable. She needed a little bit longer, that was all, to get herself used to the idea, to get to a place where she could admit to feeling, to feeling love, to loving him. And he would willingly give her what she needed, confident that by the time she was done with this other business—by the time they met up again in Markarth—she would be ready to say it.

He wasn’t sure if she slept that night, but to his shame he did, shortly after having that thought. He had intended to stay awake the rest of the night, to not squander a single moment of however long was left to them, so that while they were apart, he could look back on every minute and every second and savor the memories. But he felt so good, both satisfied with himself and with helping Gerhild experience intimacy for the first time, that he had grown too relaxed. Instead of staying awake and watching her sleep, instead of storing away every moment like a precious treasure to see him through the coming famine, he slipped away into useless slumber.

By the time he woke it was full daylight, the ship safely docked at Windhelm, and Gerhild hours gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for the comments and kudos and subscriptions. *hugs and kisses to all!*


	15. Expectations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, crap. I got so involved in Dragon Age, I forgot I was rewriting this for AO3. Oops. My bad XP  
> Profuse apologies for the lack of updates. I'll try to mix this story into my cycle (I've got three stories running right now, or is it write now, heh, heh *ahem*)

3rd of Morning Star: 4E 203

It was a bitterly bone-chilling day in the dead of winter in the coldest city in Skyrim, but Vorstag was oblivious to it. He sauntered up the stairs from the docks, entering the city through the harbor gates, his only thought to let Jorleif know he was back in Skyrim before hiring a wagon to take him to Markarth.

By Akatosh, life was wonderful!

A tune was whistling through his teeth, and with a little laugh at himself, he realized it was the same tune Gerhild always hummed, the one her father taught her. He had always wondered if she knew the real words, as it was a rather vulgar and explicit song about a soldier bedding a farmer’s daughter, but then again he supposed it didn’t matter. It was something that reminded her of her father, and she liked to hum it, and now the tune was stuck in his own head.

Aye, life was wonderful…

“Arctic Stones!” a voice called out, and he snapped out of his musings with a little start. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised—Windhelm was where he had gotten the comical nickname—but to be recognized before he had gone three blocks was a new record, especially in his new armor. He turned around until he saw who had called.

“Ralof!”

Both men flashed large, toothy smiles as they embraced, patting each other’s backs hard to be felt through their armor. “You’re back in Skyrim, eh?” Ralof asked as he pulled back and looked around, expecting to see a lithe figure in steel plate armor somewhere nearby.

“She’s not here,” Vorstag answered his unspoken question. “And, aye, for good, I think. She doesn’t seem to like Solstheim all that much.”

“Where is she, then?” he asked, “I’m only thinking of my duties as her escort, as ridiculous a position as that is…”

Vorstag laughed; being the protector of the Dragonborn was about as worthless as being her companion, the positions both men filled. “She has business elsewhere. You know Gerhild and her secrets.”

“Aye…” Ralof almost sighed, thinking of how silent she had been when he first met her, on the back of an execution wagon heading into Helgen.

“So she left as soon as the boat docked. We’re to meet up back in Markarth when she’s through, though, so I thought I’d let someone at the palace know I’d be there, for the time being.”

Ralof nodded seriously before his expression became sly and he shot Vorstag a sideways glance. “So, you have time for a mug or two…?”

Vorstag laughed, looping his arm over Ralof’s shoulders, “Aye, the day’s still young. Let’s warm ourselves in the Candlehearth Hall for a pint or two, before heading up to the palace.”

Ralof fell into step beside him, their arms around each other, as they made small talk while heading towards the inn. His grin was a little less warm, not because he wasn’t Vorstag’s friend, but because something was bugging him. Vorstag was normally a friendly, charming, sociable Nord, but there was something different today. He was more… relaxed…? No, confident! Aye, that was it. He was confident, with none of his usual blushing; even his speech impediment could barely be heard. As they progressed through the city streets, he kept stealing glances at him, wondering what had happened that caused such a change in his friend, but he couldn’t figure it out.

Not until they reached the Candlehearth. Inside the air was warm and friendly, and quite a few people recognized ‘Arctic Stones,’ lifting a mug in salute as he and Ralof passed. They took a table upstairs, and when the new, young, pretty waitress came by to take their order, Vorstag barely gave her a second glance.

The last clue fell into place in his head with an almost audible click: the confidence, the swagger, the whistling, the bemused air, the lack of interest in other women… “By the Nine, tell me you didn’t!”

“Didn’t what?” Vorstag asked, trying to sound innocent, taking a sip of his mead to stall for time.

“You and…” no, he couldn’t speak her name. “The two of you…” nope, couldn’t speak the act, either. But seeing the blush that only now was flooding Vorstag’s face, from his neck to his hairline, he knew he was right. “Ah, gods, you did!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he protested weakly, almost primly, and definitely ineffectively.

Ralof roared with laughter, slapping his hand on the table and demanding another round. “To celebrate,” he explained, lifting his mug in a toast.

Vorstag kept his mug firmly on the table. “There’s nothing to celebrate,” he tried to recover, but by the look on Ralof’s face, he knew it was hopeless. “Even if there was, it’s no business of yours…”

“Oh, aye, I know that,” he readily acceded, “But you’ve been making those puppy-dog faces at her for so long…”

Vorstag dropped his head to the table, sure that the heat coming off his face was about to spontaneously combust the wood. “Damn it, Ralof, stop talking about it!” he managed between groans.

“Oh, don’t be so upset,” he nudged his shoulder, “Our next round is here. Come on, sit up, that’s a good boy, and tell me,” he leaned in close for the kill, “Where’d you get that armor?”

Vorstag struggled to lift his head up, mostly to finish the first mug before the waitress could take it away. “Gerhild gave it to me.”

“Before or after?”

He almost answered with ‘Before,’ sputtered indignantly for several seconds, and finally managed a choked, “Ralof!”

The Captain roared again, “Gods, Vorstag, you are too easy.”

Vorstag had to give in and grin, feeling too good despite Ralof’s merciless teasing. “Fine. Think what you want, but I’m not gonna say a word on the subject.”

Ralof wiped the last tear from the corner of his eye, “Aye, aye, I’d think less of you if you did speak of it. But you better sober up before heading to the palace, or drink up so there’s an excuse for your flushed face and dopey grin.” He pushed the second mug over to Vorstag, who ducked his head but accepted it. “Now, what kind of armor is that? Never seen the likes of it before.”

“Stalhrim,” he replied, pausing to take a swallow of mead, deciding if it was so obvious, he had better get himself comfortably buzzed before facing Ulfric. He really didn’t want to think about what Ulfric might do to him, if Ulfric learned he had succeeded, where Ulfric had failed. “It’s an ice so hard it acts like metal. There’s a village up in Solstheim, Skaal Village, where a blacksmith knows how to work it into armor and weapons. Gerhild had already collected a full suit of the stuff, but it was too big for her. Fit me, though, so she said I could keep it.”

They spent the next several hours talking about his adventures with Gerhild in Solstheim, the winter sunlight falling gently through the windows to move softly across the floor. It wasn’t until their sixth or seventh round?—Ralof had lost count—when a soldier approached them and said their presence was requested up at the palace. Ralof thanked him for the message, Vorstag belched, and both men swayed trying to reach their feet. Arm in arm, hoping that their swaying would counteract each others’ and keep them on their feet, they left the inn and made for the Palace of the Kings.

Vorstag hardly noticed the coldness of the late afternoon, only glad that Ralof’s feet seemed to remember the way as he wasn’t sure which way was north, or even if the palace was north from the inn. They careened and lurched, their arms around each other, somehow reaching the courtyard. It took them three tries to find the front doors, however, and only because—Vorstag suspected—one of the guards on duty cheated and held it open for them. A tune was humming in his head—Gerhild’s tune, as he liked to think of it—and someone was singing it in full voice as they entered the main hall.

“Oh, gods, but you’re drunk! Even for a Nord…”

Vorstag recognized that voice, the gruffness caused by years of shouting orders to be heard over the noise of battle. Ralof must’ve recognized it, too, because he immediately let go of Vorstag and tried to stand up straight and salute. Vorstag staggered without the mutual support and lurched to the side, or rather the room lurched and he either had to compensate or end up flat on his face. He found a wall, a nice, sturdy stone wall that should offer him some anchor, at least until the room settled down.

“Galmar!” he exclaimed, not sure where the general was standing, but seeing blurred movement somewhere down towards the far end of the hall. “Howsh that brother of yoursh, shtill limping?” The person singing had stopped and he pouted, rather liking that song. He hummed it to himself as he waited for Galmar to come into focus.

Galmar stopped a good five feet away, able to smell the fumes from his breath even at that distance. “Aye,” he answered Vorstag’s question, “And bragging about it every time there’s weather to make it ache. When did you arrive in Windhelm? And where’s Lady Gerhild?”

“We came on the Northern Maiden,” he ignored the spurting guffaw coming from Ralof, “I think it landed thish morning, if it’sh shtill the third.”

“It is.”

“Ah, good,” he nodded, blinking, trying to make the two Galmars merge into one. “She, um, she left ash shoon ash the boat docked. I waited until daylight before coming ashore. Didn’t want to get here too early, ya know, and wake everyone up.”

“Very considerate of you,” Galmar replied dryly.

Vorstag nodded, waving a hand in acknowledgement, “Don’t menshun it.”

Galmar waited, but when it appeared that Vorstag wasn’t going to add anything more, he prompted, “Where did she go?”

“Who?” He had been thinking about trying to reach Ralof’s side again, as he looked to be having as much trouble keeping his feet as he had until he found the wall. Then he decided he didn’t want to leave the wall, nice wall, solid wall.

“Lady Gerhild,” Galmar ground out between his teeth. “Where did she go?”

“Oh,” he pouted, trying to remember. “Don’t know. Shaid she had shome buzz-nessh or shomething private, I couldn’t come with. Sho I came here, to let ya know I’d be in Markarth for a while, jusht until sheesh done with whatever and comesh to pick me up again.”

Galmar rolled his eyes, hardly understanding a word of his slurred speech. “How much did you have to drink?”

“Six…?” Ralof answered, “Or seven rounds?”

“Nine,” Vorstag replied confidently, “Definitely nine.”

“And did you have anything to eat, or did you drink all your calories?”

“Nope, haven’t eaten shincshe I left ship,”

Damn Ralof and his sputtering. They had spent their time drinking so he wouldn’t give anything away, not so Ralof could get a fit of the giggles. Galmar appeared to have had enough as well, turning to him and yelling, “On your feet, Captain! You’re a Stormcloak officer. Purport yourself accordingly, or I’ll have you relieved.”

He made a strangled noise, “I’d like to relieve myself, sir, if you don’t mind.”

Vorstag chortled, but the abdominal movement brought to mind his own pressing need. “I shecond that moshun.”

“Bah!” Galmar waved at the two of them. “Get out of here, both of you, and sober yourselves up. Better go down to the barracks, less chance of anyone seeing the sorry, embarrassing states you’re in. Take care of matters and get yourselves something to eat. No more drink! I’ll be down to speak with the both of you later.”

“Aye, sir!” Ralof saluted, missed, and poked himself in the ear. Vorstag giggled, coughed to try to cover it, and pushed himself off the wall in a direction he hoped would get him to Ralof. He missed, of course, but felt someone grab him by the scruff of his neck before he came in contact face first with the floor. His head lolled bonelessly on his neck as he ogled his savior, some nondescript Stormcloak soldier who looped his arm around his shoulders. He turned to look the other way, and saw Ralof being led in a similar manner.

Galmar shook his head as he watched the two being carried downstairs. He had signaled a couple of guards to help them, afraid they might stumble and break their necks, and seeing how much trouble they were having he was glad to have done so. Vorstag was singing again in full voice, his painful lisp disappearing completely as he sang—in key, surprisingly, considering how inebriated he was, even for a Nord! He had barely been intelligible a moment ago, which was only one reason why Galmar had given up and ordered them to the barracks. The other reason was Ulfric.

The Jarl and his wife were due in the hall any moment for dinner, and he could only imagine what the scene would have been if he’d come down to find Vorstag drunk off his ass, with no sign of Gerhild. And beaming like he’d just killed a pack of sabre cats with nothing but his bare fists. Gods, did he have to be so obvious about it? No, he’d let the boy get sobered up, then go to him and find out where Gerhild was and what she was doing and how things had gone with Miraak. And he’d try not to think about why that cocky grin was on his face!

He turned at the sound of Ulfric’s voice, light-hearted and hopeful, as he escorted Nilsine to the table. The two made a nice couple, now that the stress of trying was off their shoulders. She had yet to start showing, so there were still a few rumors going around. Those would soon be silenced, however, and Galmar didn’t give them any attention. He made his way to his seat, thinking that he wouldn’t mention Vorstag being in Windhelm, not unless Ulfric brought it up first. He didn’t look like he’d heard yet, and Galmar would make sure he didn’t, if he could at all help it. At least until Vorstag was well away from Windhelm. Ulfric was happy—the happiest he’d been in years—and Galmar feared what even the mention of Gerhild might do to that happiness.

Much less the thought that Vorstag and Gerhild had…

Nope, he wouldn’t even think it, afraid that Ulfric would read it in his thoughts or his expressions. He stole a covert glance at his Jarl, his friend, but Ulfric only had eyes for Nilsine that evening. They talked softly and laughed tenderly, touching hands ‘accidentally’ as dinner went on, discussing their plans for the babe. No, Ulfric had suffered too much for too little reward his whole life; Galmar would guard his happiness as he guarded his life, and deal with Vorstag himself, and never mention he was here today without Gerhild.

* * *

Gerhild had bought a horse. It was a stupid luxury she seldom indulged in; usually a horse was nothing more than dragon bait if it was anywhere around her. This morning, however, she had felt the need for expedience, and had pounded on the stable master's door until she roused him from his sleep. He wasn’t happy about being woken up, but he was happy about the hefty pursed she tossed at him for the fastest horse in his stables. Better yet, there was still plenty of time for him to go back to bed and get more sleep before morning.

Gerhild didn’t have the luxury of time. Brynjolf was in a lot of trouble with the Thieves Guild, his letter stating that everyone thought he was a traitor and that he wanted her help to get back into the Cistern to settle the matter. Glover had also read that letter. He would have—no doubt—sent a message to his brother in the Thieves Guild, warning him of Brynjolf’s return and Gerhild’s possible siding with the traitor. She’d have to move fast if she wanted to beat that message, and that meant a horse.

Or a dragon. With that new Shout, she could bend any dragon’s will to hers, ride it to Riften and be there before tomorrow night. This was the other reason she didn’t mind spending money on a horse/dragon bait. But for the rest of the night until well after dawn, the skies had remained clear.

Brynjolf, the first Thieves Guild member she had met in Skyrim. She could almost consider him a friend. At the very least, she couldn’t think of him as a traitor. And he no doubt knew her opinion of him, and was taking full advantage of that. Why else would he ask for her help to get back into the Guild? But she wanted the truth. Aye, the Guild had been having trouble lately. Aye, someone was responsible for this, some mysterious person was sabotaging their activities and investments. Aye, this mystery person had to know the Guild’s methods and resources. All that meant a traitor, someone who had once been—or still was—a thief.

In her opinion, there was nothing worse than a dishonorable thief. The Guild was family. Oftentimes one thief had to trust another with his or her freedom or life, definitely with contraband and fences and safe houses. If you couldn’t trust another thief, it reflected poorly on the whole family—the whole Guild. And that sounded exactly like what had happened to the Guild here in Skyrim, the distrust, the lies, the bad luck. If it turned out to be Brynjolf who caused all the trouble, who betrayed the family, she’d kill him herself. But she wanted proof!

Her hand reached down to stroke the shaft of her war axe. She would get to Riften with all haste, and confront Brynjolf, and hear his proof. Then she would decide whom to kill. Until then, all she could do was ride. And think. But the subject of Brynjolf was exhausted, at least until she could speak with him.

As the miles drifted past beneath the horse’s hooves, and still no dragon showed, she found her mind wandering back to last night and Vorstag. Stuhn’s Shield but that man was confounding! She had met him almost two years ago, and in that time they’d shared so much—emotional and physical—yet she felt like she hardly knew him. Everything about him screamed out that he was effeminate: his lisp, his blushing, his close friendship with a boy named Hamming, his month-long binge in Riften with Argis, his cooking, and a dozen more clues she couldn’t quite remember off the top of her head.

Yet last night… ah, gods, that flew in the face of all her assumptions. He couldn’t prefer the body of a man, if he was so knowledgeable about the body of a woman. Or could he? She was sure he’d been with Argis, that whole month they spent in Riften, getting drunk and brawling and… Well, alright, he never said they slept together, instead he had stopped talking and blushed. She could admit it: she had assumed that meant he and Argis had been lovers, for however brief a time, but Ysmir’s Beard what else was she supposed to think!?

Her horse whinnied, and she absently reached forward to stroke its neck.

There was another possibility she had yet to consider, one that occurred with a slight amount of indigestion. A possibility which might explain everything: Vorstag’s pickaxe swung both ways. If he had no preference, if he was happy and satisfied with whatever, whichever, whomever was at hand, that could explain all the blushing as well as his knowledge and experience. She supposed…

No, wait, she had made enough assumptions lately, and making any more would just confuse the issue even further. She’d ask. She’d come right out and ask him what he was, or which he preferred, or however one is supposed to ask that question. She would ask him when she picked him up in Markarth, just ask and find out once and for all because…

She stopped that thought, so startled at what she realized she had been considering that she stopped the horse, too. She wanted to know, whether or not he also liked boys, she wanted to know if Vorstag could like girls because…

“By Talos, what am I thinking!?”

The horse whinnied again almost as if answering, and coming to her senses she shook her head as if she could shake the thought out of her mind. She nudged it back into a cantor, trusting it to follow the road without her constant guidance. Her focus turned inward again, telling herself she was a fool to even consider it. She was not some milk-drinking maid looking for a husband, or a tavern wench looking for a steady tumble. She was Lady Gerhild North-Wind, Thane of two Holds, adventurer, spy, Dragonborn.

And she was definitely not marriageable material!

Stuhn’s Shield, but had she seriously just been thinking of asking Vorstag if he’d… he’d consent to… to be her husband…? What a stupid thought! Her life was far too dangerous for her to marry. And children? How could she allow it, if a dragon might attack her at any moment? How could she in good conscience risk the life of an unborn child, if she was constantly traveling and fighting and exploring and getting herself trapped inside tombs? No, marriage would never be an option for her; she knew that, she accepted that. Therefore, what did it matter about Vorstag? He could like men, he could like women, he could like both, he could even like her. But she would never put on an Amulet of Mara for him.

Or for any man.

Her indigestion returned in full force, and an annoying wetness stung her eyes, but she knew she was right. Growing up a waif with a crippled father, a displaced Nord in Cyrodiil, she had never indulged in that dream. Her life had been day-to-day, moment-to-moment, with no time or energy or imagination to spare for her future. She might have dreamed of a better life once, during that brief time between her father’s death and her arrival in Skyrim, but the Thalmor took that away from her with their torture and rape. Immediately after that had been Helgen and Alduin, and her existence had forever been changed. Now her life was too dangerous to allow for such dreams. Her fate—her doom—held no room for love or family. And very little room for friends.

Far back, in some dim corner of her mind, where she could hardly hear it, a voice asked, ‘What about after Alduin and the dragons are defeated?’

She may have listened to that voice, she may have even answered it, but a dragon took that moment to fly overhead, its roar echoing eerily around the foothills. Her horse reared as the shadow passed over them and a spurt of flame melted the snow in the ditch.

“Son of a bitch,” she said calmly, NOW there’s a dragon. Already she proved to herself how much she had come to rely on Vorstag, always watching her back, keeping her out of mischief and ever alert for danger. Her first day without him—the very first hours—and a dragon had managed to sneak up on her! That bore repeating: she had been so distracted by Vorstag, that she had let a DRAGON sneak up on her. A DRAGON! She was going to have to get back into the habit of curbing her thoughts, at least until she got to Markarth. Then she didn’t care what may come, or who needed her help, or how badly Vorstag’s sensibilities may be hurt; she wasn’t going to allow him to leave her side ever again.

She couldn’t dismount, having to use all her physical agility and strength to keep the horse from bolting with her still on its back. It reared, its eyes rolling white in their sockets, beyond the point of being calmed, barely able to be controlled. She struggled, kicked with her heels, pulled with the reins, keeping the horse from moving too far. It reared again when the dragon came by for another pass, but she had to focus more on the dragon than the horse. She held onto the saddle, pulled her shoulders back and Shouted.

_“Gol Hah Dov!”_

Everything grew quiet. It wasn’t surprising when the dragon acknowledged her superior will, circling once overhead before it landed in the roadway. But it did surprise her how docile her horse had become, standing practically snout-to-snout with a dragon. It must have been in the way of the Shout, and had its will bent along with the dragon’s will. Deciding not to waste time thinking about it—she had wasted enough time thinking already—she dismounted and pulled her packs off the horse’s back. She took hold of the reins one last time, staring at the dark brown eyes on the long face, trying hard not to be reminded of another pair of soft brown eyes. “Go back to Windhelm, alright?” she said gently to the horse, “Go back to your stable. Understand? Go back home.”

It whinnied and leaned forward to nudge at her cheek, and she wasn’t sure if it understood her or not. But after giving its neck an affectionate pat, it turned and trotted back the way they had come.

Gerhild didn’t give it another thought. She turned to look at the dragon sitting still and docile in the middle of the road. It bowed its head, avoiding her eyes submissively. “ _Zu'u fent aam_. I am at your command,” it rumbled.

She didn’t hesitate, nor did she speak right away. She walked over to it calmly and hopped onto its back, securing her packs before her. Then she took hold of its horns. “Fly,” she said shortly, “Fly south for now. I’ll give you more direction once we’re over the mountains.”

“As you command, _Thuri_.”

Gerhild wasn’t fool enough to trust it. Oh, it was subjugate to her Shout, and would do her bidding for now, but the Shout wasn’t going to last forever. She would ride it as far as she could, perhaps have to Shout at it once or twice more, and would make it land a short ways from Riften. Then she would kill it and take its soul, increasing her own power. That was a given. That was her nature. Dragonborn.

* * *

Norilar barely kept his eyes from rolling when he saw the seal on the letter. Ondolemar was no doubt toying with him again, passing on whatever latest rumor or gossip he had heard regarding any Nord girl. The Head Justiciar liked to throw these crumbs at him, acting like he was being helpful, when they both knew he was being an ass. Still, Norilar was not so secure in his position to ignore the missive out of spite, just in case Ondolemar decided for once to throw him a bone. He pulled out his dagger to break the seal, perhaps a little overkill, but it vented his anger nicely.

_“My dear Norilar,”_ he read, thinking there was nothing affectionate between them, _“I hope this letter finds you well.”_ No, he hopes this letter finds me with a knife in my back. He continued to scan the page, but next followed some general nonsense of goings on in Markarth, as if they were old friends catching up, nothing he was interested in.

Then he reached the bottom of the letter. _“Before I forget, I thought I would let you know that a certain mercenary has returned to Markarth. I remember you once showed interest in him. He arrived just yesterday, alone, and looks like he’ll be here for a while, should you still wish to interview him.”_

Norilar stopped scanning and reread the paragraph carefully. Vorstag was back in Markarth. Vorstag, the mercenary who had spoken with the Dragonborn and, if a pair of orphaned children could be believed, knew the woman on a first name basis. No doubt the children had exaggerated the tale, and their greed over a few septims made them agree to whatever leading questions Ondolemar asked. He knew Ondolemar didn’t think it possible, that Hildegarde the Resolute and the Dragonborn were one and the same, but over the past few months he had come to the conclusion that the idea had merit.

All thanks to Hadvar.

Torture was a much more sure method of getting to the truth than bribery. And Norilar had been thorough, taking his time, going ever so excruciatingly slowly to break Hadvar. It had taken time; he had a theory that the longer it took to break someone, the more reliable their information. Hadvar had lasted three months before he finally broke, three delicious months of ever increasing fear.

It wasn’t the pain of torture that broke a mind, but the fear of it. Fear, such a succulent and consequential concept. A man could endure what he was feeling at the moment, but the thought that the pain would increase, that the next moment would be worse than the last, was what made him cave in and talk. The greater an imagination a man had, the faster the process. As a Legionnaire, a Nord soldier loyal to the Empire, Hadvar didn’t have a lot of imagination. Norilar had been forced to compensate, to describe to him in detail what was to come, so he would have no doubt that the pain could—and would—get worse.

Hadvar was on the rack even now, awake or asleep or somewhere in between Norilar didn’t care. They were scheduled to have a session later today, but he might have to miss it. He was going to Markarth.

Though he couldn’t quite remember the name, Hadvar agreed that Hildegarde sounded right. He did remember that the girl at Helgen—the girl who had bitten Norilar’s ear and been sentenced to death for it—hadn’t claimed a city of birth, but rather the whole of Skyrim as her birthright. Then the dragon attacked, everyone scattered, and though Hadvar saw her once afterwards, he stated she left in the company of a Stormcloak rebel—Norilar knew she had been a spy!—and he hadn’t seen her again. He did hear, through rumors and tales told in taverns, that shortly after Helgen a girl appeared in Whiterun, a girl who became the Dragonborn.

Hildegarde the Resolute must be the Dragonborn. The timing was too coincidental. Yet Norilar wanted proof. He needed it, before he stuck his neck on the line again. It would be so gratifying to prove the girl he had been tasked with finding was the girl every Thalmor was searching Skyrim for, that it had been a formidable enemy who had defied him and disfigured him. It would excuse some if not all of his shame; after all, the Dragonborn had killed countless Thalmor while traveling the countryside, and he had only lost an ear.

He didn’t bother getting up from his desk before calling out, “Sorcal!”

It didn’t take longer than three seconds before there was a knock on his door. He granted permission, and a Thalmor with a softly mild face, his assistant ever since being assigned to Skyrim, opened the door and stepped inside. “You called, Master?”

“Yes,” Norilar said, straightening a few piles of letters and paperwork on his desk, “I’m going to be away for a few weeks.”

“Oh.” It wasn’t said with curiosity or disapproval, merely a sound made in response to a statement. Sorcal had practice keeping his true thoughts and feelings out of sight. His mildness often unnerved their guests, which was one reason Norilar kept him around.

“Yes, I must leave immediately. I’m afraid you’ll have to manage Hadvar’s session alone this afternoon. Do you think you can handle it?”

“I’ll do my best, Master,” Sorcal said without changing expression or tone.

“In fact,” Norilar narrowed his eyes as he stood, walking around the desk to stand before him, “Give him a cell afterwards. Let him think we’re through with him, then take him out again for another session. Question him… oh… every two or three days until my return. Don’t go too far; I should be very displeased to find him dead upon my return.”

“I wouldn’t dream if it,” Sorcal deadpanned.

“Good. When I return, I’ll have a new guest, someone whom I want to meet Hadvar, to see what happens here, so there will be no doubt in his mind that he will break, that he will tell us everything we want to hear. Do you understand?”

“I believe so, Master,” Sorcal inclined his head. “You wish Hadvar to live in false hope while you’re away, and be so distressed upon your return that it makes a good impression on your new guest—all the better to break him faster.”

Norilar smiled, but there was no warmth or affection within the gesture. “You learn quickly, Sorcal.”

“I have an excellent teacher, Master,” he deflected the compliment. “Shall I call for your honor guard?”

“Yes, thank you.” He waited until his assistant had opened the door before saying, “You know, if this should turn out as good as I think it will, I won’t be at Northwatch Keep much longer. That would open up a position here for a new Head Interrogator. And I reward my friends, Sorcal, I reward generously those who help me. As Elenwen’s right hand again, I would have nearly unlimited resources to fulfill those rewards. Do you understand?”

Sorcal smiled, a rare occurrence, but one he felt was warranted. “I require no reward greater than your approval, Master.” Truthfully, he didn’t trust Norilar to remember his name once he was back in Elenwen’s good graces, and that was if his latest scheme worked. Norilar had a reputation of back-stabbing, double-dealing, and forgetting those who help him. Besides, there was also his rotten luck, like his ear getting bitten of by some Nord chit. Who’d want to tie his career with a person who fucked-up so badly? But it never hurt to let him think they were friends—well, acquaintances—just in case he actually managed to come out on top.

And Sorcal had his first solo torture session to look forward to.


	16. Northwatch Keep

Vorstag lifted a hand to his brow, shielding his eyes from the sunlight glaring off the mountain snow. His Stalhrim armor blended in perfectly with the ice and snow, though the dark brown padded underclothing stood out. Still, whenever he crouched down low, as he was doing now, he knew he could barely be seen by either friend or foe from the front. And there were no friends out here today.

A chill ran down his spine, but he did his best not to wish—for the umpteenth time since leaving Markarth—that he had declined the Jarl’s bounty and remained in the warmth of the Silver-Blood Inn. It wasn’t that he needed the money; every time he went adventuring with Gerhild, he amassed a modest fortune. Nor did he need the exercise; he had only been back in Markarth a couple of weeks and still had a few kinks to work out from his trip with Gerhild to Solstheim. No, he had had no reason to take the bounty. Other than duty.

News reached Markarth a few days ago of a sabre cat that was accosting travelers on the road north of the city. The Jarl had immediately issued a bounty, but when no one took him up on it, he considered sending for the Companions. That’s when Vorstag thought he might as well have a look, not because he begrudged the Companions the coin or the job, but because he was already there in the Reach, and he knew he could take care of a single sabre cat. He had been acting selfish, not wanting to travel any distance from Markarth for any length of time, thinking that Gerhild could come by at any moment. But the Reach was still his home, Markarth his city, these people his friends and neighbors. He was obligated to help take care of the sabre cat, because he was capable.

More than capable, he admitted ruefully. He’d taken on Elder Dragons and Dragon Priests. Aye, those had been with Gerhild’s help, but a single sabre cat did not measure up to a dragon in strength, nor to a Dragon Priest in cunning. With his new armor and trusted Dwarven sword, he felt confident he could dispatch the creature quickly and cleanly, and people would feel safe moving through the Reach once more, and that made him feel good. Besides, this wouldn’t take much longer; he should be back home before Gerhild. And even if she did arrive before he returned, Ogmund or Argis or someone would tell her what he was doing, and she would wait for him.

Pushing aside the wish for a stiff drink and a warm fire, and warmer love, he focused his senses on his surroundings. He was well north of Markarth, almost to the border with Haafingar, but it looked like his journey had ended. He had picked up the cat’s trail near Karthwasten, and immediately it had taken him off road through the mountains. He thought about letting the animal go, as it was no longer bothering the road, but if it had found its way to the road once, it might do so again, or even to another road. He was honor bound to find it, and end it.

So he had tracked it through the mountains, day after day, until it finally looked like it had reached its lair. He was hunkered down in the snow no more than seventy yards from the rock overhang, watching the sabre cat devour its latest kill, a young elk.

Thinking that the day was clear and the wind calm, he reached behind him for his bow. The bow was ebony—another gift from Gerhild like his sword and armor—and was hard to string, the shaft strong and powerful. Vorstag managed it fairly quietly, however, and without undue movement, which might have distracted the cat from its meal. With the bow ready, he decided to creep a little closer, making sure to keep downwind, even though there was hardly a breeze. The cat remained intent on its meal, peeling off the skin to get at the tasty flesh and organs within, unaware that death was approaching.

He was only twenty yards away now. In his new position he waited awhile, still watching the cat, trying to put his finger on what was bothering him. It was acting strangely. Usually, when an animal gets a taste for man-flesh, it finds other meat less than satisfying. That this sabre cat seemed content with such a modest meal didn’t sit right with him. But there was no denying the tracks he had followed that led him here, no denying the cat feeding on a fresh kill, no denying his honor and duty. He reached behind him to pull an arrow from his quiver. One well placed shot, through the eye and into the brainpan, should kill the beast without too much fuss. That was the trick with sabre cats, kill them before the fight starts…

Something seized his arm, wrapping tightly around his wrist and holding him fast. His first instinct was to yank, which did no good. He couldn’t call out, as that would alert the sabre cat. Instead he turned his head, the helmet blocking more of his peripheral vision than he would’ve liked, until he could see what was holding him.

He didn’t know what he had expected to find—perhaps Argis or someone had followed him from Markarth and was playing a trick on him—but what met his eyes wasn’t anything he could have expected. A figure in glass armor stood above and behind him, twisting his wrist further until his arm was about to break. Vorstag quickly bent his body, giving in to the pressure while kicking out with one leg. The warrior went down with a grunt, and he managed to wrench his wrist free.

That’s as far as he got.

It was almost like falling asleep, only his body went to sleep while his mind stayed wide awake. He’d never been subjected to a paralysis spell before, and he could honestly say he would never want to again. It was unnerving, the way his limbs folded like sackcloth, dropping him to the ground in a rumpled pile of man and armor. He was in an awkward position, able to feel the ache of protesting muscles stretched and contorted, one leg folded beneath him, his waist twisted, his shoulders on the ground. Though he could feel the pain, he could not move, not even to shift his eyes. Even his lungs moved with a will of their own, not his. He could only stare as a face came into view above him.

A face framed with a Thalmor Justiciar hood.

“Well, that was easier than I thought,” he hummed to Vorstag, smiling without humor. “Ondolemar assured me you would take the bait, and I doubted him. Now I owe him…” he paused and looked over his shoulder at someone out of Vorstag’s view, “What was the bet for?”

“Ten septims, sir.”

“Ten septims,” he repeated, sounding slightly miffed. “Still, I’ll admit, you’re worth more to me than that.” The Thalmor sighed and looked off at something, before turning back. “Vorstag, isn’t it? Vorstag of Markarth. Son of Rigmar and Valinna, friend of Ogmund the Skald. Yes, you see I’ve done my research. I know, for instance, that you are having an affair with Lady Gerhild North-Wind, a Thane of Markarth.” He laughed, again without humor, as if he could read Vorstag’s thoughts and fears. “Oh, don’t be upset. I’m not concerned with her, or with the skald. You see,” he settled himself beside Vorstag, removing his helmet to take a close look at his tattoo. He shoved and tugged his head around as he continued to talk, “There’s some information I’ve been trying to discover. Information that, I believe, you may have. Now, it might turn out that you know nothing of what I need to know, which would mean an interminable time of pain. Or, it might turn out that you know the very thing, which would lead to a quick death. But that’s out of both our hands now. From this point onward, you are my prisoner, and no one—not even your precious lady friend—will ever know you are still alive. Is the animal drugged yet?” He said this last bit to someone Vorstag couldn't see.

“Yes, sir,” a voice answered. There were sounds penetrating Vorstag’s ears, but he couldn’t figure out what they meant. The thud of something heavy hitting the snow, and a sickeningly wet sort of chopping noise. “It’ll sleep soundly for at least three hours, and then no doubt enjoy the little gift we’ll leave it.”

The Thalmor made a noncommittal hum and turned his attention back to Vorstag. “I’ve gone through a lot of trouble for you, I’ll have you know. I had to research you thoroughly, find a male Nord of your approximate build and height—still don’t know what I’ll do about the tattoo. Then there was getting the measure of your character and personality, finding something that would lure you out here, away from the city and any witnesses, something dangerous enough that could appear to have cost your life. And leaving a trail of false sabre cat paw prints to lead you here, that took days.” He heaved a weary breath. “It was exhausting. But here we are, together at last, and in a couple hours we’ll be on our way to Northwatch Keep. Are you finished with the corpse?” he called again to the other Altmer, before leaning back over him and patting his shoulder, “Stay here, Vorstag, I’ll be right back.”

 _Stay here?_ he thought. _How the fuck am I supposed to go anywhere?_

A Thalmor Justiciar? Northwatch Keep? Information that he knew? It was confusing… no, nightmarish, the thought too horrid for his mind to accept. This couldn’t be happening. He was supposed to wait in Markarth for Gerhild. Then they’d go off together again, and maybe even she’d have had time to admit to herself that she loved him. There was nothing in their plans that held this… No, he couldn’t accept it. Wouldn’t. He’d fight them. He'd never be imprisoned again. He’d die first!

He could hear them, talking quietly, just a few yards away, but their words were indistinct. He tried, he tried harder than he had ever tried anything before; and if a man could exhaust himself doing nothing, Vorstag achieved it.  He tried to swallow, to lift a finger, to twitch his foot, to do anything other than blink and breathe, both of which were happening automatically in a frustratingly calm manner. The spell was too strong, however, and it seemed far from wearing off any time soon. He continued to struggle, determined that the very first moment the spell ended, he’d be on his feet and fighting, killing the Justiciar first, the warrior second. It would be either their lives, or his.

“Ah, problem solved,” the Thalmor announced as he returned. “We’ll stage it so that it looks like the animal managed to get your helmet off when he took your head from your shoulders. I’m afraid you won’t make a very good looking corpse, but that’s to be expected, losing your life to a pair of sabre cats. It’s a pity we’ll have to leave behind this armor—we’ve been looking for Stalhrim armor for some time now—but that can’t be helped. Even one missing piece might raise suspicions. Here’s how it’ll go,” he said, squatting down next to Vorstag again. He had an air of excitement about him, like he was telling a story to a young child, giving Vorstag a special treat or reward. “When someone arrives to investigate your disappearance, they’ll find that corpse in pieces, dressed in your armor, along with one live and one dead sabre cat. It’ll be painfully obvious to them that you tracked the one cat here and killed it, only to be surprised by the other, now vengeful cat, before becoming its dinner.” He tilted his head and tapped Vorstag’s chest. “You know, you should be grateful to me. I’ve made it so that you will die a hero’s death. For years to come, your friend Ogmund will tell the tale of how Vorstag of Markarth ventured out into the wilderness to slay a sabre cat, only to find it had a mate. Tragic tale. No doubt Lady Gerhild will cry herself to sleep for months over the loss of her lover. Bah, as I said, nothing can change that, even if I wanted to change it. No, my dear Vorstag, you are dead. Strip him.”

 _Gods_ , he prayed, _Akatosh, Talos, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Julianos, Arkay, Zenithar, Stendarr, help me!_

He could offer no resistance as two warriors clad in matching suits of glass armor began cutting away his armor and weapons. They took their time and used dull knives, not wanting to make any clean cuts through the straps, to keep with the story that a sabre cat’s teeth and claws had ripped it apart. They didn't stop at his armor and weapons; the Justiciar was serious when he told them to strip him. They didn’t stop until he was divulged of every stitch, every layer of protection and modesty.

Except for the Silver-Blood Family ring which Gerhild had given him. _Please, gods,_ he prayed again, a whisper of a hope forming in the back of his mind, _don’t let them see it…_

The snow was cold against his exposed skin. Several minor cuts marred his flesh, where their dull knives had reached too far, but the Thalmor didn't seemed concerned with these. The Justiciar had stood back the whole time, watching with narrowed, calculating eyes, giving small suggestions as they worked. Now he continued to stare, even as the other two went about dressing a corpse to leave—in pieces—next to the dozing sabre cat, another dead sabre cat off to the side with Vorstag’s sword through its chest. Whatever the Thalmor was thinking, Vorstag was sure he didn’t want to know, just as he was afraid he would eventually find out.

At last the warriors must have finished their work staging his ‘death.’ They came back and began, none too gently, preparing him for transport to Northwatch Keep. They dressed him in a rough-spun tunic and leggings held in place with a bit of twine, and rags were wrapped around his feet. They shoved him onto his back, one grabbing his wrists while the other began binding his hands in front of him.

“Hold!” the Justiciar commanded, and the two immediately stopped. The Justiciar leaned in close, examining his hands. “Well, well, well, this is fortuitous. We almost made a serious mistake. You, take off that ring and leave it with the corpse.”

The one warrior tried, but it wouldn’t budge. “It’s stuck fast, sir.”

The head Thalmor made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat. “It’s always the little things that create the most difficult complications. Very well. Roll him onto his front, and hold him down.”

 _Hold me down?_ he thought. _As if I could get up and run away?_

They rolled Vorstag over in the snow, and made sure his head was turned sideways so he could see his hand no less than a foot from his face. The heel of a glass boot pressed down on the back of his hand, grinding bits of dirt and debris into his skin. The other warrior was on his back, holding his right arm behind him, pressing him down with his weight, as if Vorstag could struggle. He couldn’t, the paralysis spell still in full effect, still unable to do anything more than stare.

He wanted to turn away when he saw the Justiciar reach down. He prayed he could have at least closed his eyes when he saw the knife, its blade full of tiny saw-like teeth. Yet he could only stare as the Justiciar picked up the littlest finger of his left hand and bent it away from the others. The cold metal touched his finger, and in one smooth motion drew across skin and flesh to reach the bone. Back and forth the tiny saw went, making its way deeper and deeper on every pass, until the last bit gave way.

An impotent howl of rage tore through his mind, not at the pain, not at the loss, but at the finality. He had hoped, if the ring was overlooked, that even with the evidence—the armor and weapons—someone would figure out it wasn’t him. Someone would suspect foul play, and that he might still be alive, and find a way to track him down and rescue him. Gerhild would have done so. She loved him. She wouldn’t believe he was dead, not until it was proven to her beyond the shadow of a doubt. She had given him that ring, knew that it wasn’t coming off, and if it hadn’t been discovered with the corpse, she would have known he was still alive…

The pain faded under the force of a healing spell, closing the wound and stopping the bleeding. It also countered the paralysis spell. Immediately he was moving with strength born of desperation, leaving the hand beneath the boot in favor of dislodging the other warrior. He felt a bone snap in his arm but ignored it, twisting and using his legs for leverage to buck the warrior off his back. Then he curled in the other way towards his pinned hand, bringing his leg up to swipe at the back of the second warrior’s knee.

A second paralysis spell hit him just as he connected. The warrior staggered off his hand but maintained his footing, and Vorstag’s body once more sagged passive and powerless in the freezing snow.

The Justiciar laughed. Though the sound held more emotion than before, it made Vorstag feel worse. It took almost a full minute before he had regained his breath and was able to talk. “Oh, my dear, dear Vorstag,” he knelt down and grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking him around until they were eye to eye, their noses mere inches apart, “This is better than I could have hoped for. Such spirit. Such strength. You are going to be an absolute pleasure to break.” He ended with a funny sort of shudder, almost like sexual anticipation, that made the bile want to rise up in the back of Vorstag’s throat.

The Thalmor let go, dropping his head back into the snow, but he could still hear him giving orders. “Put this with the other pieces. And take the corpse’s little finger, left hand; it would be suspicious if there were two of the same finger. One must pay attention to the details. You, are you alright? Good. Tie him up. No, I don’t care about his arm; I’ll heal that after we’re well away from here. Throw a hood over his head; maybe he’ll be less likely to fight if he can’t see. Finished? Good, then let’s go. The sooner we’re back in Northwatch Keep, the sooner I can begin.” Again his voice almost purred with that sick expectancy.

The warriors lifted him out of the snow and began dragging him between them, his toes scraping along the frozen tundra, his head sagging beneath the hood and the paralysis spell. Vorstag hardly noticed, his ears pounding with blood, though not from the pain of his broken arm. He now knew, with a surety born of Oblivion, that he was going to his death. He had figured out why the Thalmor took such pains to capture him, to make sure there would be no questions or pursuit. Usually they didn’t cover their tracks, as they didn’t consider anyone would dare defy their authority. Taking him this way only meant that they wanted information that he had, that only he had, and on someone they feared to raise the suspicions of—someone who would dare defy their authority, and had on several occasions.

The Dragonborn.

That had to be it. That had to be the answer. Somehow they had learned that he had traveled with her, that he knew her personally… The twins! Those two innocent waifs he had escorted to their aunt in Markarth, who now lived and worked in the Understone Keep, right under Ondolemar’s nose. Ah, gods, they must have said something, maybe exaggerated the tale, talked about his having a private conversation with the Dragonborn. And Ondolemar must have overheard.

Fuck! The Justiciar had said he wasn’t concerned with Gerhild; if only he knew the truth! But he wouldn’t learn it, not from Vorstag; he would die before telling them anything about her. And he knew he could do it, he knew he could resist any torture they used on him. Even the thought of being imprisoned again—like Cidhna Mine—of never seeing the sunlight or feeling the wind on his face… No, he would face his fears. He would not give in to the panic, the need to climb and tear through the rock with his bare fingers, the gasping as he felt the air grow hot and stifling—even now within the hood, the pressure as tons of dirt and rock threatened to bury him alive, the thought that he would never be free again…

No! He would remain strong. Because he had seen under the Justiciar’s hood just now, when he held them face to face. He had seen the stump of what had once been an ear. And he knew who held him captive.

Norilar. The same ass-wipe who tortured and raped Gerhild. If she could survive, if she could endure and still have the strength to defy him, so could Vorstag. He’d find the strength, and he’d find some way to die, to cheat Norilar of his answers, rather than give her up.

He would, because he loved her more than life itself.

 _Stuhn,_ he prayed, _God of Ransom, protect your Champion from the Thalmor. Do not allow me to betray her, even if it costs my life…_

* * *

Vorstag didn’t know how long it took to travel. He only knew his last sight of Nirn had been the winter snows of the Reach. He held on to that vision, keeping it fresh in his mind, recalling the glare of bright sunlight off the snow, how the banks would sparkle like powdery diamonds. Stunted juniper trees and large boulders frosted with white, looking like a sweet roll or some other children’s treat.

The smell, too, of clean cold, filling his nostrils and cleansing his lungs.

The sound of his feet, biting through the crusty outer layer of snow to sink into the pillowy drift within.

All these things were a world’s difference from the heavy, stuffy black hood enveloping his head, dulling his senses.

They led him by a rope tied to the bindings around his wrists, the rough hemp gouging his skin and bruising his flesh. The paralysis spell had worn off days ago, and a healing spell had been used to heal his broken arm so he could walk unhindered by the pain. He had tried to fight them at first, but after days of travel, his body was so weak from the constant walking and near starvation that all his energies were now focused on fighting to keep his feet. The hood had remained in place, and with his arms stretched in front of him as he struggled to keep up, he never had a chance to try to remove it even far enough to peek at his surroundings. He supposed it didn’t matter; they had told him where they were going. Northwatch Keep.

Yet he would have liked to have had one last look at the sky.

He could feel it—even if the increasing noises, muffled through the hood, hadn’t told him they were at the Keep—he knew it when the feel of warm sunlight left his bare arms. Cool dankness now surrounded him, penetrating his hood to fill his lungs with damp. It was an ugly, stale sort of dampness, like cooled blood, spilled long ago but kept from drying out thanks to being underground and away from sunlight.

His feet stumbled on some stairs, and through the rope he was yanked upright. The warriors took up positions on either side of him after that, holding onto his biceps, their armor hard and unforgiving. They half guided, half carried him the rest of the way, through twisting hallways and across vaulted chambers, all of it smothered beneath the dark cloth. When they stopped, Vorstag was so used to walking that he tried to take a few more steps, only to be harshly yanked back by his escort.

He heard Norilar command something, the damned Justiciar’s voice seemed to cut through the hood like a razor. A moment later he felt a boot land behind his knee, knocking his leg out from under him, banging his kneecap on the floor. The bindings were cut and he was pulled backwards by his wrists until the cold scrape of rough-hewn stone was at his back, his legs weakly trying to follow. He made to stand, but they spread his arms wide to either side of him and slightly raised, at an angle that stretched his aching muscles uncomfortably. Something cold and hard and metal pinched against his wrists, clicking into place with the finality of a lock. He didn't want to do it—damn it!—but his wrists were shackled too wide and too low to allow him to stand, and too far off the floor to allow him to sit. He had to kneel.

He tried to keep his chin raised, to show some sort of defiance. When the hood was yanked from his head, it felt like a tuft of hair went with it. The force made his head bob downwards, but slowly, and stubbornly as only a Nord could be, he raised his chin again.

His surroundings came into view slowly, his eyes having trouble. Not because of being inside the dark hood for so long; the room he was in was already dark and windowless—don’t think about it—the only light coming from a brazier in the corner and a rusting iron chandelier overhead. But his eyes were unused to seeing, and he had to blink several times before they remembered how to focus at various distances. Norilar was the first thing he stared at, the Justiciar’s dark brown robes distinctly different from the patina-like color of the glass armor-clad warriors.

Norilar smiled sickeningly at him again, but he kept his expression impassive. All the way here Vorstag had been praying—funny how some experiences can lead a man to religion—praying mostly to Stuhn that he would protect his Champion, Gerhild. He prayed some to Arkay that his death would come swiftly, a few to Talos just because the Thalmor were trying to stamp out his worship. Once or twice he prayed to Mara, that Gerhild would never realize that she loved him, if only to spare her any pain upon the news of his death. The result of all this praying was a strange sort of peace, a trust of fate, an acceptance. All men died, that was an immutable fact. Though Vorstag could have wished for a few more years—with Gerhild—he wouldn’t fear death. As he told her once, he knew his death would be for something worthwhile, a greater cause, and because of that he would face it squarely and would not cower or wet himself like a child.

Soon, perhaps not tonight, but one night this nightmare would be over and he would be dining in Sovngarde. Already he could hear the drums of dancing feet, the clatter of clashing mugs lifted in toasts, the low hum of conversations of countless Nords reliving tales of old…

The fist striking his jaw knocked the vision from his head, along with his senses. He embraced the blackness, but he was not allowed to stay. A healing spell brought him back to consciousness, along with tepid water thrown at his face. He sputtered, blinked to clear the stagnant liquid from his eyes, and looked around to reacquaint himself with his situation.

“No, no, no,” Norilar was shaking a finger under his nose. “You’re supposed to have more stamina than that, my dear Vorstag. I had been led to believe that you traveled with the Dragonborn herself. Surely the two of you have been through some tough situations. Are you telling me this is worse?”

Aye, Vorstag thought to himself, he’d been ambushed, humiliated, injured, mutilated, starved, marched to his doom… Aye, this was worse. This was worse than Cidhna Mine, worse than Raven Rock Mine. But he would not let it show. Whatever the Thalmor wanted from him, he wouldn't give it. If they wanted information, he’d give them silence. If they wanted stamina, he’d give them acceptance. If they wanted fear, he’d give them peace. If they wanted disgust, he’d give them disinterest.

“As you said,” he spoke the first words since they’d taken him captive, “I’m a dead man.”

The blows came swiftly, given by a glass-gauntleted fist, followed by healing spells. Pain and comfort. Blood and healing. It seemed to go on for hours, at the very least the warrior delivering the blows was winded by the time they finished. Vorstag was numb, his body even weaker than before, having to deal with the shock of injury, even if the wounds didn’t remain. Still he struggled to lift his chin, the back of his head hitting the wall, and blinked up at Norilar.

“You must know by now why you are here.” It was strange how a voice could purr in such a condescending tone. “Even if I haven’t said it, you know. And you should also know that you will tell me everything. But just in case you still hold on to the idea that you can defy me, I have a special demonstration just for you. Wait right here.”

Again with that stupid joke. Vorstag ignored him. He also ignored the thought of what this display could be. He wouldn’t betray Gerhild, for the simple reason that he loved her. There was nothing they could do to change that, nothing they could show him that would shake that. He would hold on to that love, no matter what was to come, and it would give him the strength to defy them and to protect her.

The three left him alone in the room, giving him the chance to take a good look at the chamber. By now his eyes could focus once more without extra effort, though what met his sight made him wish he was blind. He was tucked back in a small alcove, around the corner from the main door. Along the wall to his right was a rack, the chains freshly oiled and well cared for, the floor beneath stained with old blood. Against the far wall was a table, also stained black-red, with shackles at the corners. A little further on was the brazier, standing waist high and filled with glowing coals, a few irons hanging from hooks in the wall beside it. He couldn’t see around the corner where the door was, but on the wall to his left was a low shelf, and spread out on the top was a burlap case filled with knives, saws, tongs, hooks, screws and other implements he didn’t care to guess the uses for. From the amount of dried blood and gore stuck between the teeth and within the tiny crevices, they were well used, though not well cared for.

A whimpering reached his ears, like the sound of a small puppy that’s been beaten too many times, weak and pathetic and futile. Briefly Vorstag wondered why they tortured animals in this place, what purpose it could serve. When the Thalmor came back into the chamber and around the corner, he was amazed to find out he was so wrong. Two Thalmor carried a man between them, or what had once been a man. His head was lolling weakly, his eyes wide and rolling like a horse frightened by a snake, his lips mouthing the pitiable whimpers. Yet he didn’t resist as they dumped him on his back on the table, stretching his limbs out to shackle his ankles and wrists to the corners. Vorstag could see scars all over his body, thanks to a lack of clothing, the marks wide and pink with freshness, as if they were continually reopened and only barely healed.

“This is Hadvar,” Norilar said, and Vorstag almost jumped. He’d been so distracted by the sight of the man—Hadvar—that he hadn’t noticed the Justiciar’s presence beside him. “He’s been with us… oh… four or five months now? I forget exactly. It’s written down somewhere. Anyway,” his main focus was on the burlap case, his gloved fingers toying with the tools, as if trying to decide which one was his favorite. “Hadvar is a Nord. An Imperial soldier. He was stationed at the Keep in Helgen at the same time Ulfric Stormcloak evaded his execution. But that’s not why he’s here. He’s already told me everything he can. No, he’s here,” Norilar turned towards him holding an unusual knife, a small blade at the end of a long thin handle, “To show you how vain it will be to resist me. I will get my answers from you, just as I’ve gotten them from Hadvar. Watch closely. Leave us!” He said this last to the warriors, who smartly obeyed, the sound of the door closing behind them thudded like the headsman’s axe. One person did remain behind with them, another Justiciar judging by his robes. Yet he stood off to the side, unobtrusively, like a trusted servant or assistant.

Norilar, the scalpel in hand, approached the table. Hadvar saw him coming, and almost immediately the whimpers dried up into a pain filled silence. His eyes stared with abject horror at the Justiciar, without the will to even turn his head away in defiance. “Hadvar,” he spoke calmly and slowly, like he was talking with a backwards child, “I want you to meet Vorstag. He’s going to be with us for a while, and you’re going to show him what’s expected of him, aren’t you?”

Hadvar nodded, not because he understood or agreed, but because he knew he was supposed to nod.

“Good. Now, tell me all you know about Hildegarde the Resolute.”

Hadvar’s mouth worked, but no sounds came out. Norilar gave a small sigh, as if he had already expected such a response. He climbed the table and straddled Hadvar's waist, lining up their crotches obscenely, holding the small knife at the top of a wide scar directly over his heart.

“Always the hard way,” Norilar muttered to himself. The pressure increased as his hand slid easily down Hadvar's chest.

“I was stationed in Helgen,” Hadvar gasped, the words were forced out with the hope of stopping the blade, “A soldier. I assisted the Captain. Read the lists of condemned prisoners…”

Norilar’s hand returned to the top of the chest, a little more pressure applied this time.

“I… there was an extra prisoner. I asked her name. It wasn’t on the list…”

“What was her name?” Norilar coaxed.

“Ah… it was… it was…” The knife came back up to the starting point again. “Hildegarde! She said Hildegarde! I’m sure of it! Hildegarde!”

Hadvar’s words tumbled out after that, tripping over each other in their haste to exit his mouth and end the pain, spilling the tale of how he met Hildegarde in Helgen just before the dragon Alduin attacked. Vorstag knew the story already, and he knew Hadvar was lying. The name wasn’t Hildegarde, but Gerhild, yet for some reason Norilar wanted the Nord girl who escaped Helgen to have the name Hildegarde. And Hadvar, tortured to the point of madness, was willing to agree to anything if only to make the pain stop.

Norilar’s hand held the scalpel aside, a drop of blood still clinging to the tiny blade. The other hand was sunk into Hadvar's chest, coated in blood up to his wrist. Even after Hadvar had told him everything he wanted to hear, Norliar continued, slicing through muscle until he could slip his fingers between Hadvar's ribs and around his heart. Vorstag wondered if he knew Hadvar was lying, but by the smile on his face, the sated and self-indulgent smile, he decided the Justiciar was simply a sick bastard.

He looked away and caught Hadvar’s gaze. He laid there, broken and beaten, no longer a man, no longer anything. In his eyes was something indescribable, something dark, something that had looked into infinity, an eternity of enduring sufferance. Something that, ashamedly, wished to trade places with Vorstag, to be back on the wall, rather than the table. Vorstag couldn’t blame him, not with a madman like Norilar kneeling over him, his life literally in his hands. Vorstag breathed the words, Talos be with you, and Hadvar’s expression changed slightly.

Norilar continued squeezing for a few moments before he realized the heart was no longer beating. “Damn it!” he cursed, sending a mild lightening spell through the body without any result.

“What is it?” the other Justiciar asked, though his tone held neither interest or concern.

“I pushed him too far,” Norilar sighed. He set the scalpel down and swung himself off the table. “Oh, well, no matter. He served his purpose.” He wiped his gloves off on a rag as he approached Vorstag. “I trust you understand, there will be no holding back. You will tell me everything I want to know, starting with the name of the Dragonborn.”

Vorstag stared up at him, seeing just far enough inside the hood to find the stump of an ear, reminding him again of Gerhild. Defiance swelled his heart; he would not give up the woman he loved, even if he never knew freedom again. With superhuman strength born of pure valor, he set his feet beneath and him stood. His wrists snapped, unable to bend enough to allow for the position, and he ignored the pain, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders. With a snarl he spit full on Norilar's face.

“Oblivion take you!”


	17. A Dark Plan

9th of Sun’s Dawn: 4E 204

Vilkas walked slowly into Whiterun, an unusually somber Ria at his side. His heart was as heavy as his steps, as heavy as the small chest he carried in his hands. He had refused Ria’s help, carrying the parcel all the way from Markarth by himself. It was the least he could do, thinking of the news he brought with it. For the first time ever since her initial appearance in Whiterun, Vilkas found himself wishing that Gerhild was not there.

He paused next to the outdoor work area at Warmaiden’s, looking at Breezehome sitting just beyond the shop, Gerhild’s house in Whiterun. “Ria,” he said, his rough voice even rougher with grief, “Go ahead and find out of she’s in residence.”

The young whelp twisted her fingers in front of her. “I… I don’t want to be the one to tell her…”

“You won’t,” Vilkas tried to reassure her, but his tone could hold no comfort, the Nordic lilt tired and flat. “I’ll tell her. Just find out if she’s in Whiterun.” Gods, please, let her be away.

Ria nodded, unsure but knowing she’d have to do as a member of the Circle said. She jogged ahead, no doubt thinking to get an unpleasant task over and done with quickly. He leaned against the porch post outside Warmaiden’s. Gods, he was tired, in both body and soul. He waited, watching until he saw Ria look up at whomever opened the door before he set his feet back in motion. She appeared to be talking with someone, not stepping inside, but standing on the stoop and gesturing down the street at him. When Lydia poked her head outside, he was finally close enough to hear their words.

“She’s left an hour or so ago, not long,” Lydia was saying, shaking her head. “What is it?”

“Thank you. Oh, Vilkas, Lydia says that Gerhild is up in Jorrvaskr visiting Kodlak. She arrived in Whiterun last night, and plans to leave tomorrow… for Markarth.”

Vilkas cursed silently, hearing Ria’s voice crack.

“What is it?” Lydia repeated, eyeing the chest Vilkas carried with a great amount of suspicion. “What’s wrong?”

“May we come in?” he asked softly, gesturing with the chest. Lydia stared at him a moment thinking of her duty to protect her Thane’s property. But he was a Companion and honorable and not a thief. Besides, he wouldn’t ask to come inside unless he had business he didn’t think should be conducted in public where everyone could see. So she stepped aside and allowed the two of them to enter.

A very different scene was playing out on the back porch of Jorrvaskr. Gerhild sat across the table from Kodlak, a small repast set before them, as they enjoyed a rare warm day near the end of winter. The sun was shining brightly, almost enough to hurt the eyes, reflecting off the snow piled on the city walls just beyond the practice yard. Farkas and Athis were training, swords clashing and sending sparks of reflected sunlight shining beneath the shade of the porch. Gerhild cheered as Athis scored a hit, and laughed when Farkas pulled a face and growled playfully. She was dressed in a deep red gown of warm velvet, her feet encased in soft leather boots. A mantle of snowy sabre cat pelts adorned her shoulders, guarding her against any errant winter breezes.

Kodlak was also warmly bundled against any chill, though far more securely than Gerhild. Still he felt warmed by her presence, and found himself enjoying the smile on her lips and the light in her eyes. It was so good to see, after the loss the Companions had suffered a few months ago when Skjor was killed. Gerhild had been saddened when he told her of it, and had wondered aloud if things might have been different if she had been there. He had chided her gently, reminding her that Skjor’s and Aela’s little war with the Silver Hand hadn’t been her responsibility. She had listened to him but remained saddened for the rest of the morning, and he had to remind himself that though he had had time to get used to Skjor’s death, she had just heard the news.

But at this moment, with the bright sunlight and her warmer laughter, he found himself feeling younger than he had in years. And he saw, beyond any doubt, that his young friend was in love. “You’re looking far better than you did six months ago,” he reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

She looked at him, ignoring the practice fight, and saw the twinkle in his eyes. “So are you,” she lied glibly, making him smile.

“Don’t flirt with me, lass,” he gently teased, “Or you’ll make this old man think you might just have feelings for him!”

She laughed lightly, the sound warm and bright with sunlight. “Feelings can be a wonderful thing, old friend.”

“Oh, have you discovered them?” he asked, trying to sound sly.

“I…” she stopped suddenly, blinking as her mind tried to think. Did she have feelings for Vorstag? She certainly saw him as a friend, her closest friend, but she didn’t think that was what Kodlak meant. “I don’t know. Oh,” she huffed at the face he made, giving his hand a playful tug, “Don’t look at me like that, Kodlak, I truly don’t know. I only know that I almost didn’t stop in here on my way to Markarth, so you had better be thankful that I did.”

“I am, my dear girl, I am,” he answered, giving her hand another squeeze before letting go.

Gerhild gave him a look that said she barely believed him, but turned back to the fight.

Truthfully, things were still confusing in her life. She had spent a month straightening out the mess the traitorous Mercer made of the Thieves Guild, even so far as to go with Karliah and Brynjolf to track Mercer down and make him pay for his betrayal with his life. Before starting out, Karliah had insisted she and Brynjolf become Nightingales, the secret trio of Thieves Guild members devoted to Nocturnal, the patron Daedric Prince of thieves. Gerhild hadn’t wanted to, thinking she had barely escaped Hermaeus Mora’s clutches, why should she willingly turn to Nocturnal? Then she realized, though she worshiped Stuhn now, she was a thief at heart, and Nocturnal perhaps had been the patron of her youth. Out of respect for that, she agreed.

And Nocturnal had rejected her.

She didn’t know if she should be relieved or miffed about it, and the rejection confused her, but at least she was allowed to keep the armor—and her soul. And with Mercer dead, and Brynjolf returning the Skeleton Key to the Twilight Sepulcher, Nocturnal should grace her favor on the Guild and their luck would return.

So, all was right in the world, or at least it would be better when she got to Vorstag in Markarth. He still puzzled her whenever she thought about her reaction to him, and his reaction to her. Her chest would tighten and catch her breath in her throat every time she recalled his shit-eating grin when he teased her, or his puppy-dog eyes when he pouted, or that adorable lisp when he got a little too deep in his cups. And blood would race through her veins to flush her cheeks whenever she remembered that last night of theirs together, how he made her body sing and dance to his tune, how her untutored responses brought such sweetly intimate gasps from him.

She was determined, whatever happened, she was going to have a long talk with him and, at the very least, discover which way his pickaxe swung. Beyond that, well, she knew there could be nothing beyond that, and wouldn’t even let herself consider it, but if the conversation went on long enough…

There was a final cheer, and Gerhild quickly came out of her thoughts, embarrassed to find she had missed the end of the fight. Her cheeks slightly pink, she applauded and cheered with the rest, but eventually Kodlak caught her eye. The pink deepened to rose when he leaned forward and said, “Farkas won, in case you were too busy thinking about HIM,” he stressed the last word, letting her know he knew exactly where her thoughts had been, “Instead of watching the fight.”

“Hush, you old tease,” she hissed, which only made his eyes twinkle brighter, and her blush turn to a red almost deep enough to match her gown. She was quickly saved from any further teasing by a pair of new arrivals.

“Hail, brother!” Farkas called out, and all heads turned to see Vilkas and Ria walking slowly around the corner of the mead hall. “You just missed it. I beat Athis here in one-handed combat! Though I think he… might’ve let me… win…” Farkas’ voice trailed away, being the last of those gathered there to see the dark and deeply sad look on Vilkas’ face. “What happened?”

Gerhild was wondering the same thing, not having seen a look on his face like that before. She would have feared that a whelp had been killed during their latest mission, the death of Skjor still fresh in everyone’s thoughts. But Ria was the only one he took with him, and she seemed whole and healthy beside him, though even more sad. The girl was avoiding everyone’s eyes, even Aela who came up to take her by the arm and lead her off for a quiet conversation. Vignar had come up to Vilkas trying to do the same, but he waved both him and his brother off. His steps slow and deliberate, he gently pushed through everyone to reach the table where Kodlak and Gerhild sat.

“Harbinger,” he said first, his gruff voice without any of its normal disdainful sneer or posturing brag. “Gerhild.” If it were possible, she thought his voice had dropped even softer, to the point of becoming gentle and compassionate. A cold chill dripped down the ridges of her spine, as if one of the icicles hanging above her head had suddenly let go to melt against her back. She couldn’t explain why, but his actions stopped the breath in her lungs, and drained the overly-bright color from her cheeks.

“Vilkas, what news?” Kodlak asked, carefully trying to find a way to start this conversation. He didn’t know what was wrong, but he knew it must be something devastating the way Vilkas was acting. Off to the side he could see Ria must have told Aela, as she was looking to them now, her nose turning red as she tried to hold her tears at bay. She kept her arms around Ria as the girl cried silently on her shoulder.

Vilkas couldn’t speak. He had heard Gerhild’s laughter as they approached, so warm and bright and full of life. He looked down at the letter in his hands, having left the chest with Lydia in Breezehome, but couldn’t give it to her. He knew the news would hurt her, cut her deeply as no sword or axe or mace could ever do. He didn’t want to be the cause of her pain, he didn’t want to witness it, he didn’t want the others to witness it, either.

“Go on, lad,” Kodlak’s wizened voice coaxed him.

He lifted his eyes up from the letter to look at Gerhild again. She was sitting there, her posture stiff, like she already knew but refused to hear it. Gods, but he didn’t have the heart to do this. Why couldn’t she have been gone? Why couldn’t he have just missed her? Then she would have gone all the way to Markarth before finding out…

No, it was better for her to learn of it now, among friends and family, people who cared about her and could help her through her time of grief. He tried hard not to notice the snowy sabre cat cloak on her shoulders—ah, gods, the irony! He tried to ignore the way her cheeks, flushed only a moment ago, were now gray with dread. He focused on her deep violet eyes, calm and clear, and opened his mouth.

No sound came out.

She didn’t like the way he stared at her any more than she liked the way his voice had grown compassionate. “Vilkas,” she began, fearing her own voice was clearer than it had a right to be, “Kodlak said you and Ria were on a job in the Reach. It’s a shame; had I gotten here a couple of weeks ago, I could’ve traveled with you.”

“We were…” he had to pause to clear the huskiness out of his voice. “The Jarl there had asked for the Companion’s help in tracking and killing a sabre cat that had been accosting travelers.” It had been easier to start with the job, nice and clean and simple. Too bad the whole of it wasn’t related to the job. “When we got to Markarth, we learned that someone else had left to fill the bounty, but he was overdue. So we went ahead and tracked the cat anyways. Got almost all the way to Haafingar Hold before we found it. Found them.”

“Them?” she asked, wondering why he was being ambiguous, fearing the answer.

“A pair of sabre cats.” He saw the relief in her eyes, and hated himself, knowing it wouldn’t last. “It looked like…” he stopped, having to clear that damnable lump out of his throat. “It looked like the adventurer had tracked the first cat all the way from Karthwasten back to its den. He even managed to kill it, before its mate showed up and surprised him. There wasn’t much…” he stopped, unwilling to give her even a hint of the gruesome sight, “I mean, I didn’t recognize the armor and… well… it was hard to identify the man, until I found…” Again he had to stop, knowing he was making a mess of the whole damn thing. Giving it up as a bad job, he decided to just finish it, however heavy-handed and clumsy it may be. “I’m sorry, Gerhild, I… here…” he passed over the sealed letter, stamped with Jarl Igmund’s symbol, which she took automatically. Then he pulled out of his pocket something small that caught the sunlight.

Sound began to fade from her ears. The smell of the food right beneath her nose was swept away. The feel of Kodlak’s hand on hers grew dull. Even sight seemed to dim, spiraling down ever tighter onto that tiny ring of silver, a stark contrast to Vilkas’ black glove.

“We returned Vorstag’s remains to Markarth,” she could vaguely hear Vilkas’ words; it was like he was speaking to her from the other side of the base of a waterfall. Some of the words were louder than others, a few were completely lost beneath the roaring of the silent cascade. “…armor wasn’t salvageable… greatsword to Argis… some to Ogmund… letter, by the way… at Breezehome with the gold…”

At last his words were drowned out, only to be replaced by a memory of Vorstag’s words, spoken to her in Markarth months ago, that boyish grin gracing his lips as he spoke, _“You only Shouted down my throat. It’ll take more than that to kill me.”_ She had nearly killed him that night, lost in the grips of a fit of hysterics, when he covered her mouth with a kiss to try to silence a Shout. If he could survive that, surely a pair of sabre cats couldn’t…

“…no…”

Sound was returning, the sensation of touch too, but the fact did nothing to offer her comfort. She felt a small sting on the side of one finger, and looked down to see that the letter from Jarl Igmund had given her a paper cut when her fist had crumpled the parchment.

“Gerhild…”

“No.”

Her voice was a little stronger that time, cutting through whatever Vilkas had been about to say. A few moments ago she’d been on the verge of embracing an emotion, a new and strange and wonderful emotion, considering to allow it to swell within her bosom, give her timid hope for a future…

“But…”

“No!”

She pushed back from the table, back from Kodlak’s weak grasp and Vilkas’ hand, still holding that band of silver like it was an offering. The bench tipped over and landed with a loud thump on the stone porch, making nearly everyone jump. She didn’t care; she didn’t notice.

This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. Argis had threatened him, told him he’d break Vorstag’s legs if he broke her heart. He took Argis seriously, she saw it on his face. He would do everything within his power not to break her heart.

A pair of sabre cats? It didn’t make sense. The dumb ass had taken on an Elder Dragon single-handed. A Dragon Priest! An army of ash spawn… An encampment of Forsworn… Trolls… Hagravens… Draugr… Not to mention all the stupid traps and pressure plates and tombs she led him through…

A pair of sabre cats?

“Take the ring.” Kodlak’s gentle voice, weakened with age, still brooked no argument. Only because he commanded it, her fingers reached out and plucked the ring from Vilkas’ hand, small and light, shining brightly with a promise of friendship and love that was now gone, forever beyond her reach.

Though she held the proof in her hand, she couldn’t accept that Vorstag was dead. They were supposed to meet, in just a few days, a week at the most, depending on how long it took her to reach Markarth. Then they’d never be apart again; she had sworn it to herself. She needed him.

She loved him.

 _“You could never break my heart…”_ Merciful Mara, how wrong she had been! The emotion had been trickling little-by-little, leaking past her defenses and into her heart, weakening the dam. Now it hit her like a tidal wave, overwhelmed her, swept her along in its current until she was lost far from shore. With pleading eyes she looked up at Vilkas, willed him to tell her that it was a sick joke, that the ring was fake, that Vorstag was hiding somewhere nearby ready to jump out and wrap her in his arms…

The porch gave a funny lurch and tilted, floor and ceiling exchanging places. Arms were around her, but they didn’t hold her as Vorstag did. The scent of leather and male sweat filled her nostrils, but there was no juniper. And the face that filled her vision was devoid of soft brown eyes and that captivating swirling tattoo…

“What happened?” Farkas asked.

“She fainted,” Vilkas answered calmly. He had tried to catch her before she hit the floor, but only managed to protect her head. He supposed any bruises on her backside she could heal, once she came to her senses.

“Is she hurt?”

“No, Ice-brain,” Vilkas ground out, taking out his frustration on his brother, always a safe target when the beastblood raged, as it was doing now. He truly hadn’t believed the stories he heard in Markarth, how close she and Vorstag had grown—they were lovers?—until he saw her reaction this evening. She was hurt, deeply, and there was no way he could fix it for her. The beast within him howled with impotent ire, and he had to battle it into submission before he could speak. “She’s had a shock. Go and open the door; we should get her inside.”

Gerhild wasn’t aware of what was happening, not really. She heard voices, but couldn’t tell who was talking or what they were saying. There was movement of color, but nothing that solidified into any recognizable form. She had thought she was outside in the sunshine, but there was billowy softness beneath her.

She didn’t know when it happened, but she realized with a small start that she had been awake and staring at a closed door for a fair amount of time. She lifted her head to look around, amazed to find herself in a room that was both familiar and alien to her. It took her a moment longer to realize she was in Skjor’s room, devoid of his personal items.

Memory seeped back slowly, like she had just woken from a dream and was still sorting through what was real and what had been fantasy. Skjor was dead; she remembered Kodlak telling her this morning how he and Aela had tried to wipe out the Silver Hand on their own, costing his life and almost costing Aela’s as well. That had been months ago, shortly after Gerhild had left Whiterun to go to Markarth…

Her hand shook, flying to her mouth as she rolled over. No no no no this isn’t real this isn’t happening please please please let me wake up let this be a nightmare let him be alive please Stuhn I don’t want to live without him!

Something metal clacked against her teeth. With her eyes squeezed shut, she brought her hand back from her mouth. Then with trepidation she peeked from beneath her lashes.

Someone had placed the silver ring around the index finger of her right hand.

She stared at it, her heart ripping in two. It looked the same as it always had, delicate and small and shining brightly. Only it was on the wrong finger, on the wrong hand, on the wrong person.

_“…I’ll keep the ring; don’t think I could get it off without losing the finger…”_

Vilkas had mentioned a sabre cat had killed him, no, a pair of sabre cats. Had they…? Ah, gods, she couldn’t bear to think about it, but she had to know. She threw off her cloak, someone had placed over her like a blanket, and gained her feet. The room gave a little tilt, but she ignored it and yanked open the door, intent on finding Vilkas and getting the whole story from him, no matter how bloody or distasteful or…

“And there you found his remains?”

Out in the hallway, she could hear Kodlak’s voice, coming from nearby. The doors to his sitting room and bedchamber were both open, though only a crack. Looking around, she saw that no one else was in the hallway. She carefully opened the first door a little further, slipping inside unnoticed, not wanting anyone to witness her dishonorable eavesdropping.

“Aye, what was left of him, after the surviving cat had had its fill.” Vilkas paused to clear his throat. “It was terrible, Harbinger. He’d been torn apart, armor and all. Some of his body was eaten down to the marrow. The cat had skinned his face before cracking his skull to get to the innards.”

Gerhild found a wall to lean against, sliding down until she sat on the floor. Alduin himself couldn’t have moved her from that spot, no matter how grisly the scene Vilkas described. It played out in her mind as the Companion continued to speak, the Stalhrim armor—the very same armor Vorstag babied so, protected it more than it protected him—had been trashed and ripped and useless against his terrible end. And also his trusted Dwarven sword, that had seen him through so many fights, caught in the ribs of the first cat and unable to get free in time to save him from the second.

“I couldn’t believe it was him, even knowing he had gone after the cat and hadn’t been heard from since. The body was about the right size, and though there wasn’t enough left of the face, the hair looked right. The armor was different, unlike anything I’d seen before. But when I found that ring, with the finger still inside it…”

Cold ice swept through her, followed by a sudden heat. Then numbness.

“When we first got to Markarth, his friend Ogmund—the one who told us he was missing—mentioned he and Gerhild had become lovers. I couldn’t believe it. I knew they were friends, I supposed I thought they just got along well or something, but seeing her reaction tonight…”

“Aye, lad, she loved him deeply, only I don’t think she figured it out in time.”

Ice. Fire. Numb.

“What did you do with his remains?”

“We brought him back to Markarth. His friend Ogmund arranged for a small service; we stayed for that, in Gerhild’s stead. Then the Jarl had his will read, didn’t know he had so much coin. No one did. Vorstag saw to it that Ogmund would be set for life, never have to sing again for his supper. Gave this beautiful and terrible greatsword to a man named Argis, I guess they were once good friends. Left a bit of money to various others, even a couple of orphans who were working in the Keep. The rest came to Gerhild.” Vilkas took a deep breath. “Even after all he gave away, there was still a small chest of gold for her. Left it in Breezehome. Figured there was no point bringing it up here to her, when she’d just have to carry it back down there. But the letter and ring, I had to bring her those. Don’t think she would’ve believed me, otherwise. Not sure she believes me now.”

Cold. Heat. Nothing.

Kodlak’s breathing changed, and Vilkas continued in a softer, gentler manner. “Get some rest, Master. You’ve exhausted yourself today, coming upstairs and sitting outside with her.”

“I’m not your Master, lad,” he chided just as gently. “We’re Companions. And it’s just my body that fails me, not my heart. But I think I will rest for a time. Go keep a vigil on Gerhild; she’ll need a friend when she comes to her senses.”

“Aye, Harbinger, I will.”

Vilkas didn’t leave right away, sitting and watching Kodlak until he drifted off to sleep. He was getting weaker, his body gnarled and twisted with age, but his mind and his heart remained strong. Still, it wouldn’t be long before he left this world for the next, and if Vilkas wanted anything for him, it was to give him the chance to reach Sovngarde, and not be forever doomed to roam Hircine’s Hunting Grounds. He stood and gently took the top of the blanket to bring up to Kodlak’s shoulders. Then he left the old man to his rest.

He had closed the door quietly and had turned to face the outer door before he saw her. She was sitting on the floor, her back against the wall, her face blank and her deep violet eyes staring at nothingness. Guiltily he glanced over his shoulder before looking down at her, and immediately he knew she had heard their conversation—she had heard too much.

He knelt down next to her, his hand held out as if he was trying not to startle a doe. She lifted her gaze to him, her cold dead violet eyes boring holes through his to see into his soul. “I needed to hear it.”

He had to close his eyes and tilt his face away. “No, you didn’t,” he argued quietly, not wanting to disturb the Harbinger. “No one would. Come. I’ll walk you home.”

Home, she thought to herself. Aye, she had a home here in Whiterun, and one in Markarth, and had one of a sort in Windhelm. But what was it Vorstag had once told her? _“I’m not talking about a group of rooms… I’m talking about a home, having a place you can return to, filled with people you know, where you feel loved and missed when you’re not there. A home.”_ He had such a place, even though it had been nothing more than a rented room in an inn, it had been his home. She owned two houses in two cities, and slept in a palace in a third city, and none of them felt like home the way he had described it.

Nothing of her thoughts showed, not even the deep aching pain she felt each and every time she thought about Vorstag.

She’d never again see him. Even if she went to Markarth and visited his tomb, there’d be nothing but a box inside an alcove holding bits of bone. The man she loved was dead, was gone from Nirn and, Stuhn willing, dining in Sovngarde, sharing tales of the adventures he had with her, the Dragonborn. Aye, tonight her love dined in Sovngarde.

Her love. Looking back over the months they spent together, and the year they spent apart, she could see she had loved him for a long time. She could almost touch the moment it happened, so long ago, and wanted to curse the clarity of hindsight that made things so obvious after the fact, but not as they were happening. She had loved him, but had been too blind to see it, too naive to understand it, too driven to make the time for it. And now all that time, all that opportunity was lost. She’d never again see his soft brown eyes, or the pout that reminded her of a kicked puppy, or the unrepentant impish grin when he teased her. She’d never again hear his warm and friendly chuckle, or the smooth as silk baritone when he sang, or the adorable lisp that disappeared when he sang but grew stronger when he drank too much.

Merciful Mara, why did this come too late? Why did she only now, after his death, realize that she loved him?

She knew the answer, though it hurt even more she made herself face it: because it didn’t matter. Aye, she loved him, loved him with all her heart, a heart she thought was dead but he had breathed life into. But what of it? She could never marry. She could never have a family. She hadn’t even been sure he was interested in her. No, her love for him, even coming so late, meant nothing. Or perhaps it was a blessing. Had she realized it earlier, she might have tried to make a life for them together. She might have worn that Amulet of Mara, stood beside him in a Temple, joined their futures and their love—if he loved her—for the rest of their lives. And how long would that life be? Her fate, her doom, Alduin, still loomed before her on the horizon. Until he was defeated—or, Stuhn forbid, she was defeated—there was no room for anything or anyone else in her life.

Including love…

She found herself sitting on her bed, not sure how she had gotten there. Beside her on the mattress lay a crumpled letter, Jarl Igmund’s seal imprinted in the broken wax. Next to it lay another letter, its seal bearing what looked like a lute. For once, despite the state the first letter was in, she could tell that for once Lydia hadn’t tried to tamper and read either of them.

For some strange reason, that hurt, too.

* * *

Gerhild secured the double buckles of her sleeveless leather armor at her waist. She left the hood off and the chest strap full of pockets; she wouldn’t be needing those for what she was doing. She thought about leaving off the gauntlets and shoulder pauldrons, but decided to put on the extra protection, as it was best to keep her body used to the weight and feel of the armor. Then she opened her bedchamber door and started down the stairs.

“Where are you going?” a hurried voice called from behind her.

“Out.” The response was short, though not harsh. It was simply one word spoken in answer to a question.

“Out where?” Lydia’s voice was closer, almost at her ear. She wasn’t walking either fast or slow, but Lydia was rushing to catch up.

“None of your concern.” She began to pull open the front door.

And Lydia’s hand slammed it shut before it had gotten more than an inch.

Gerhild turned her cold, dead violet eyes to her housecarl, her first housecarl, and said very quietly and very, very seriously, “Remove your hand.”

Lydia swallowed, true fear filling her features and spilling into the rest of her body. She kept her trembling hand firmly in place, however, and said, “Not until you tell me where you are going.” When Gerhild didn’t answer right away, she pressed, “You’re dressed in armor, Lady Gerhild. If you’re going out to fulfill a bounty…” she quickly bit her lip, thinking of how Vorstag had lost his life fulfilling a bounty, and cursed her clumsy tongue.

Gerhild remained impassively staring at her.

“I mean, if you’re going out on a job, I should go with you. Or Farkas. You like Farkas. Even Vilkas. Or any of the Companions. Take someone with you, please.”

Gerhild took a moment to consider how best to answer. It was obvious that Lydia was concerned for her—for some reason—as she stood there half dressed but determined not to let her go out alone. Still, company was something she didn’t want, not right now. She thought the honest truth might put the woman at ease and allow her some privacy. “I’m only going so far as Jorrvaskr. I want to hone my skills, and I don’t have any practice dummies in here. I’m sure the Companions wouldn’t mind my destroying a dummy or two.”

Lydia looked at her for a few moments, her eyes flickering back and forth as she tried to search Gerhild’s eyes. She must have decided either that her own actions were out of line, or that her Thane was telling the truth. “Aye, well, that’s fine, I just didn’t like the idea of your heading out of Whiterun on some job without someone to watch your back.”

A shadow of a memory tugged at her mind, but she mercilessly squelched it. “I watch my own back, Lydia.” She gave the door another yank, her strength more than a match for the housecarl. If she slammed the door a little too harshly behind her as she left, she didn’t care.

It was early in the morning, the late winter day a bit brisk, but there was the promise of warmer weather later thanks to a clear sky. The merchants were just setting up their stalls in the marketplace, Belethor and Arcadia unlocking their shop doors and pausing a moment on the thresholds to exchange gossip with the other merchants. As Gerhild walked uphill to them, conversations began to fade away and eyes began to stare. It wasn’t due to her armor; she had worn the old and battered blackguard armor in Whiterun before, though admittedly not while strolling down the street in clear sunlight. Gerhild knew they were looking at her, thinking of her loss…

She shoved the thought aside and ignored their rude reactions.

All except Fralia. She came out from behind her stall as Gerhild made to pass by without stopping. “I haven’t spoken with you since your return to Whiterun last week,” she began, her frail voice tender with understanding.

Gerhild didn’t want to stop, she only wanted to get to those practice dummies and decimate them. Politeness dictated that she offer a platitude or two before moving off, however, so she answered, “I’ve not been well.”

“Aye,” Fralia agreed, looking at the dark circles under her eyes, the gaunt shadows on her cheeks, her pale skin. She reached up to brush an imaginary strand of hair back behind her ear. “A broken heart will do that.”

Anger boiled the blood in her veins. Why did everyone walk on eggshells around her? Why was everyone nice? Other people had died in the history of the world; she was sure of it. Why did everyone act like this one death, this one man, meant so much more than any other? “Excuse me, Fralia, but I’m afraid I’m not very good company today…”

“Eorlund is working hard on your new suit, you know that, don’t you?” Fralia continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “I’ve seen part of it; snuck a peek last night. Ah, it’s beautiful, Gerhild…”

“I’m sure it is.”

“…As black as midnight, and as strong as time…”

“I can hardly imagine.”

“…And embellished with beautiful filigree at the edges. A fine suit of armor it will be. He’s working on the war axe today. If you’re headed up there, you should stop in a take a peek yourself.”

“I might do that,” Gerhild nodded. “I was just on my way to Jorrvaskr…”

“Ah, well, good,” Fralia patted her arm. “I’ll let you get going then. Good day, Lady Gerhild.”

The sigh of frustration was easy to resist; Lydia wasn’t the only one concerned over her personal affairs. At least they believed her when she said she merely wanted to go to Jorrvaskr. “Good morning, Fralia.”

She turned away, the old woman’s hand falling off her arm as she restarted her steps. The climb to the Gildergreen was uneventful, until the top step when a pair of children raced past her, the boy screaming for mercy as the girl relentlessly chased him down. Gerhild’s reflexes were quick, and she managed to keep her feet despite the suddenness of their appearance. She heard a guard shout out to the children to watch where they were going, and offered her an apology afterwards on their behalf. Outwardly she nodded an acceptance and continued on her way, but inwardly the whole interaction hardly warranted any consideration.

After climbing the steps to the mead hall, she decided she might as well climb the second set of steps to the Skyforge and keep up the appearance of being civil. Eorlund was there, as Fralia said he would be, his hammer ringing through the early morning air in a steady, familiar rhythm. She stayed back a ways at first, watching him work, easily handling the heavy metal and equipment despite his advanced years.

“Good morning, Lady Gerhild,” he acknowledged her. He usually only called her by her name, the use of her title cutting her like a blade.

“Good morning, Eorlund,” she replied. “Fralia stopped me in the market this morning, said you were up here working on my war axe and I should stop in and take a peek.”

“Aye, lass,” he answered. “I don’t normally like to show off my work while it’s still in progress, but this one time I think I could make an exception.”

Again, someone was being too nice to her, making exceptions, acting overly curious, hovering… None of her frustration showed as she approached and leaned over his shoulder to see the blade. “It’s beautiful,” she said softly.

“Aye,” he agreed with no small amount of pride, “And terrible. When I’m through, the spike on the back will be as long as the blade on the front.” He set it back in the forge, the metal having grown too cool to work while they had been talking. “We’ll need to talk soon about where you’ll want the balance in the shaft. And about the dagger you requested. Then I expect about a month from now, we’ll be able to do the first fitting on the suit.”

“That will be nice,” she agreed. “Excuse me, I’ve kept you from your work long enough.”

“Lady Gerhild,” he called after her, and she turned at the top of the stairs, one foot already down a step. “If you want, I could find the time to repair that armor you’re wearing. The slice in the shoulder looks like it had been particularly nasty.”

She shook her head, “Thank you, but no. I’ve already replaced this with another set of lightweight armor. I’m only wearing this for practice.”

“Gonna use the yard behind the hall?”

“Aye,” she agreed, wondering if he was going to keep a watchful eye on her from up here. He nodded, but when it looked like there was nothing more to say, she nodded also and turned away.

She didn’t go inside. Kodlak had often told her she could use the yard whenever she wished, and Ria was there now, getting in some training early in the morning before anyone else was up and about. Gerhild noticed she seemed to be having some trouble with her backhand swing, and reluctantly she began to offer to show Ria a few pointers. She took one look at Gerhild, however, and mumbled a hasty excuse that she had to go inside as she scrambled to put away her sword and shield.

Gerhild tried to ignore her, as she tried to ignore everyone else. But, damn it, they weren’t making it easy! She walked over to the weapon rack and rummaged for something suitable.

It wasn’t long before her solitary practice was interrupted. “You can’t actually kill a practice dummy, ya know,” a lilting, gruff Nordic voice taunted her, “No matter how hard you hit it.”

Vilkas, she sighed to herself. Other than that first day, he had been the one person who acted normal around her, sneering and spoiling for a fight. A dark plan half-formed in the back of her mind, something she wouldn’t openly consider, something that had been there for a week, waiting for an opportunity…

“You volunteering?” she replied, turning to face him, scraping the point of the practice sword on the ground, knowing such disrespect of her weapon would infuriate him.

“Lift that point off the ground, you brainless whelp!” he commanded, his face reddening with anger.

She raised it only a fraction of an inch. “What do you say?” she swung her other hand wide, gesturing to the dummy, “Will you offer your life to spare his?” Her brain wasn’t working, wasn’t thinking, that dark plan growing in power and taking over everything, her words, her actions.

His eyes narrowed, his features twisting even further. He stalked up to her, his anger almost tangible. “Is THAT what’s bothering you so much? You blame me? You think I should have gotten there faster? You want my life to be forfeit, because I couldn’t save his?”

“You said it,” her voice was as quiet as his was loud, “Not me.”

The beast within him snarled acceptance of her challenge. She could see it in his silver eyes, hear it in his growl, feel it radiating off his body like heat. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see him change, right then and there in the middle of the yard where anyone could see…

Vilkas barely caught himself in time, barely battled down the beast. Damn that woman! Somehow she had known the guilt he was feeling, had seen it and used it against him. Well, fine! Just… fine! If she wanted to spill his blood, if she wanted retribution, and if this was what it took to get her out of her depression, then he’d pay the price. His feet pounded the packed earth of the yard as he marched to the weapon rack and wrenched a random sword free.

No sooner had he turned around to face her than he had to lift his sword and block, stopping her sword less than an inch from his head. His eyes were wide, part in surprise and part in fear, seeing the cold deadness in her deep violet orbs. She felt nothing. Wanted nothing. Cared for nothing. But she was going to kill him.

Fuck!

He knew there’d be no reasoning with her, even though his anger had cooled instantly under that icily calm gaze. He shoved her away, licking his lips as he considered his options. He could run; as cowardly as that sounded, it was probably the safest and easiest way for him to keep his life. He could drop his sword and run, not that she wouldn’t kill him unarmed, but with both hands free he could toss things behind him to hinder her pursuit. Then he’d reach Kodlak’s chambers; she wouldn’t dare kill him before the old man.

He blocked a thrust, this one at his groin. Perhaps she would kill him in front of Kodlak.

His only other option was to defeat her.

Yup, he was fucked.

Maybe there was another way, he considered, as he gave ground under a flurry of blows. Maybe he could stall; if he did so long enough, others would come out and see there was something wrong. She wouldn’t kill him so cold-blooded in front of witnesses, would she?

Aye, she would, if she truly blamed him for not reaching Vorstag in time. The problem was, he couldn’t tell if she had meant it. She was acting so strangely, so quiet and withdrawn ever since he had delivered the news. He had no clue what she was thinking, or even if she was thinking, behind those eyes as deep and dark as the grave.

Still, maybe he could wear her out. Maybe he could exhaust her. Maybe, if he kept his moves defensive, let her do all the attacking, maybe she’d run out of strength and just collapse…

“Figures.”

“What?” he asked, rising to the bait before he could stop himself.

“You’re cowardly,” she replied, her voice emotionless. “No wonder the reputation of the Companions has dwindled so much, with members like you on the Circle.”

He swallowed, blocked another overhanded swing and grabbed her wrist. She in turn grabbed his, their faces no further than a breath apart. “I know what you’re trying to do.” He gulped a lungful of air, seeing Eorlund walking out of Jorrvaskr with Farkas and others in tow. He must have noticed them from the Skyforge and, realizing something was wrong, and had come down to get the other Companions’ attentions. “It won’t work…”

“Did you ever think that Skjor might still be alive, if you had gone with him and Aela that night?”

Gods, that was a low blow. It showed, he know it showed on his face. “I didn’t cause his death…”

“You could have prevented it!” Foam flecked the corners of her mouth. With a mighty bellow she shoved them apart, almost breaking her wrist as she wrenched it out of his grasp.

“If this is about Vorstag…”

She ignored his words, the dark plan from earlier having suffused her entire body and soul and mind. “Jergen, your father or whoever he was, brought you here hoping you’d learn something about courage and honor. But you continue to disappoint, don’t you? First Skjor, now Vorstag! How many more people will die because of you, because of your failings?”

“Stop this!” he cried, even as she battered at him again, forcing him to retreat. “Killing me won’t bring Vorstag back!”

“I was wrong,” her taunting continued as relentlessly as her blows. “Jergen didn’t bring you here, he abandoned you here. Couldn’t stomach the sight of you, the stench of cowardly piss…”

The roar came from his chest this time, fierce and not quite human. He saw red, felt his hackles rise, could almost taste her blood on his tongue. He heard Farkas shout something, but like Gerhild he was beyond caring. He swung once, twice, she blocked once, twice. He thrust, she dodged. He lunged, she side-stepped and scored a scratch across his backside for good measure.

He battered her, just as she had done to him several times already. Repeated blows came at her in a flurry of clashing swords amidst a Nordic battle-cry. Physically he was stronger than her, and she was forced to give ground.

Ria’s shield from earlier, hastily put away, had slipped from its rack to land half-ways propped on the foot of the stand. As Vilkas battered at her head and shoulders, as Gerhild retreated, neither of them saw the shield in the way. He caught her sword with his and swung it around in circles, over and over, until it finally slid off his sword and almost out of her hand. As she tried to reclaim her grip, he thrust, a short stab, aimed straight at her heart.

It was a blow meant to end fights, a killing blow, driven more by instinct and training than conscious thought. And too late he realized what he had done.

Gerhild saw the point aimed for her heart and knew her current armor was no match for the blow, not after all the abuse it had suffered. Yet she welcomed the sight, the dark plan still in control, now almost at fruition.

One more step backwards, mostly because she had been in the middle of the step when he began the final blow, and it wouldn’t be enough to change the course of the blade. Her heel came down, on the shield which wobbled beneath her weight, and her balance was instantly lost. She kept moving backwards and now downwards, saw the point of the blade elevate, not by much, an inch perhaps.

Two inches. Not quite three.

She felt it press against her armor. She heard it rip through the leather. She gasped as it bit into her flesh, sank deeper and deeper, driving between her ribs and through a lung.

Time froze. The Companions gathered under the porch didn’t dare to breathe. Vilkas stared with shock at Gerhild skewered on the end of his sword. She lifted deep blue eyes up to his and almost smiled with gratitude. Her lips moved, but whatever she said didn’t have the breath to be heard. Then she slid backwards off the blade to land on the ground.

Vilkas jumped at the sound, a loud crack, that he felt as much as heard when her skull landed on the ground. Immediately he was kneeling beside her, tossing his sword aside, shaking her shoulders and trying to get her to wake up.

“Careful,” Aela said, grabbing one arm as Farkas grabbed the other.

“Let go of me!” he snarled, throwing them off. “Get a healing potion!” He reached down and lifted Gerhild up, gentler this time, and saw what had made the sound. There was a rock, half-buried in the frozen ground, and puddled with blood.

Her blood.

“Torvar is getting it,” Aela answered.

“It won’t do any good,” he moaned, lifting her into his arms. “The back of her skull’s been caved in. Get Danica. This is something that requires skill, not a potion.”

“I’ll go myself.” Aela was off like an arrow, racing around the hall to get the healer from the Temple of Kynareth, just on the other side of the Gildergreen.

“Farkas, get the door.” Gone was the heat of battle, of anger. She had pushed him into the fight, he knew it. She had pushed him, scraping her nails over every raw nerve, until he lost control and tried to kill her. And she wanted him to. He had seen it in the dark look on her face. Read it on her lips as she mouthed those last words.

_‘It’s alright. I want this.’_

But she wasn’t dead yet. He could see the pulse fluttering within the vein at her neck, feel the shallow rise and fall of her chest, hear the gurgling of blood in her airways. No, she wasn’t dead. Yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the last chapter. I apologize for this chapter. I also apologize for the cliffhanger. But thanks to an overwhelming writer's block on my other stories, I should be able to focus on this one and get the next chapter out fairly quickly.  
> Also, I just want to go on the record and say, even though I wrote that Gerhild wanted to kill herself, does not mean that I condone the act. Suicide is not an answer. Ever! And please, please, if you ever feel that way, please talk with someone about it. You'd be amazed at the number of people who care, really care, about you. Trust me. Have I ever lied to you?  
> —Chalybeous


	18. Between Sovngarde and Oblivion

There was no pain.

That was something unexpected.

She had always thought death was supposed to be painful. It had been for those whose lives she had taken. She often saw too much of the grimace on their faces, the surprise, the pain, the fear, until the expression settled into its final death mask. She had almost grown bored with it, could begin to predict how a certain enemy would die, the order of the emotions, which one would be his or her final feeling. In that dark corner in the back of her mind, she had even wondered which emotions would cross her own face upon her death, which expression would become her death mask.

She never thought it would be peaceful.

“Lay her down gently, on her front.”

_Strange, that sounds like Tilma. Can she be dead, too?_

“Turn her head so she can breathe.”

_Farkas is dead? No, not sweet, gentle Farkas. He’s a good man. He doesn’t deserve death, not until the lycanthropy is cured. I wonder if Kodlak will ever find the cure._

“We’d better not; there might be an injury to her neck.”

_Vilkas, I am so sorry I used you. Please, Vilkas, don’t blame yourself. Don’t feel guilt. The blame is all mine. Mine. Please, forgive me._

“Prop her chest up with a couple of pillows. Roll a blanket and put it under her forehead. Use whatever you can to pad her body, keep her from moving. Where is Danica!”

_Poor Vilkas, he does blame himself. That’s my fault. I should apologize to him, but I suppose that’s too late now, isn’t it? Strange. I thought death would be different, like waking from a dream and finding myself in another realm—Sovngarde, gods be willing. I didn’t think it’d be like this, black and cold without sight or smell or touch, only sound. Strange how I can still hear things._

“I… I got here as fast… as fast as I… I could…”

“Ahlam!” Vilkas nearly snarled. He expected to see Danica, not her assistant. “Where’s your mistress? Gerhild is hurt, the back of her head’s caved in. We need Danica.”

_Shit, that explains it. I’m not dead yet. I wonder why the fuck not!? I certainly tried…_

“She…” Ahlam was gasping for breath, having sprinted from the Temple to the living quarters of Jorrvaskr. “She’s in Rorikstead. A dragon attacked. They had several people badly injured. Aela went to fetch her, but it’ll be days before she can get here.”

“Gerhild might not have days,” Vilkas muttered. “She might not have hours.”

“I… I can try,” Ahlam offered.

“I don’t need someone who can ‘try’,” Vilkas fully snarled, “I need someone who can ‘do’!”

“She’s the only one who can help,” Kodlak’s voice teetered from just outside the door. “Unless you can wake Gerhild up enough to have her heal herself.”

Vilkas knew he had lost control and spoken out of turn. He battered down that damnable beast within him yet again. He wanted the cure, needed the beast gone, and soon! Otherwise, he’d have to let it out, at the very least to hunt, before it got too frustrated and another accident occurred like what just happened to Gerhild… He forced himself to unclench his fist and speak in a nicer tone of voice. “I’m sorry, Ahlam, for snapping at you. I… we all care about Gerhild. It was a stupid accident. She tripped. Hit her head on a rock. Do what you can for her.”

“Will you need anything?” Farkas asked. His voice was timid, hopeful, eager to help but not knowing how.

“Let me see what we’re dealing with, first.” Ahlam sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers carefully moving the intricate braids out of the way to peek beneath. “Gods,” she breathed before catching herself; the others didn’t need to know how bad it was—even if they already suspected. “Get me shears or a knife. I’ll need to cut away her hair.”

“She won’t thank you for that,” Vilkas muttered, but Farkas was already racing out the door.

“And water and towels, for cleaning her wounds,” she called after him. She wasn’t sure if he heard, but there was what sounded like a muffled acknowledgement coming back through the doorway. She returned her focus to her patient. “Vilkas,” she grabbed the next available assistant, “Come here and put pressure on this point right here, and here on her front.” She guided his hands into position, making sure he was pressing hard enough to stop the blood flow out of the chest wound both front and back.

“Aren’t you going to heal her?” he asked, not flinching from the blood but wondering why in Oblivion she didn’t just hurry up and cast a healing spell already!

“When I use Restoration Magic, it’ll heal all her wounds, all at once. So before I can cast the spell, I have to make sure there’s no debris inside any of her wounds, or it’ll get healed inside.”

“That’s why you need to cut away her hair,” Vilkas caught on, “So you have a clear view of the wound.”

“Yes,” Ahlam answered. “And in the meantime, we need to keep her from bleeding to death from the chest wound, so keep up the pressure. Thank you, Farkas.”

“She’ll…” Farkas shifted from one foot to the next and back again, his brow scrunched up hopefully, looking like a lost little boy. “She’ll be alright, won’t she?”

Ahlam didn’t know how to answer. This was the part she hated about being a healer: lying—at the very least stretching the truth—to the patient and the patient’s family to keep them from worrying. She paused in her snipping to look up at Vilkas, begging him for help, not sure what to say to the gentler twin that would ease his concerns.

“Of course she will, Ice-brain,” Vilkas replied with more confidence than he felt. “Didn’t Ahlam send you to get some water and clean towels?”

“Ah, right, forgot.” Farkas was off again, moving a lot faster than one would suspect for a man of his size.

Once he was out of earshot, Ahlam’s voice whispered, “I don’t know if I can do this, Companion. It’s beyond my skill. I know how it should be done, but… I’m not that talented of a healer yet.”

Vilkas nodded, guilt tearing out his heart and eating it before his eyes. But he had to stay strong, for Ahlam’s sake, for Farkas’ sake, for Kodlak’s sake, for Gerhild’s sake… for his own sake. “Focus on keeping her alive. Maybe you can heal her enough so that we can wake her up, and she’ll be able to finish healing herself. At least we can keep her alive until Danica can get here.”

Ahlam nodded, and returned to her snipping.

Gerhild had been aware on some level of the conversation going on behind her back, literally. She thought she should feel upset about her hair, but couldn’t manage it. The worry and fear in Farkas’ voice should also be upsetting, and the guilt in Vilkas’ voice was her fault, but the reasons why had escaped her. She was floating, weightless, in a void. Pain, emotion, reason, sensation, breath, life… All was fading away, floating away in the directionless nothingness.

Time was meaningless.

Thought was meaningless.

Life was meaningless.

…

“…Gerhild…”

She knew that voice. Worse, she knew that name.

“Gerhild, please, try to…”

Try. Trying would require effort. She had none.

Try? Try to do what? She didn’t remember what the voice wanted her to try. Should she know already?

She was… asking questions. Curious, that was the word. Curious of what? What had she been thinking? There was something… something she should… something…

Try.

Light. Light was before her, around her, bright and stinging her sight.

“That’s it, girl. Open your eyes. See me. Know me. Come on, Gerhild.”

She was Gerhild. Memory came back in pieces, like walking through a fog—only the part that was near her could be remembered, everything else remained locked away behind the mist. As soon as she turned to try to see a different memory, the first would fade from view.

“Heal yourself.”

A hand was before her, no, three hands. Two were thick and calloused, the creases etched with dirt and grime. The third hand was slender, though not soft, and hanging limply between the other two. A silver ring shone around one of the fingers.

“You know Restoration Magic. Heal yourself. Please, Gerhild.”

Restoration Magic. Hands. Gerhild. She tried to hold on to each thought, each part of her memory, as they drifted past, but she kept having to let go of whatever she was holding to grab the next thought. In desperation she decided to focus on one thing, just one thing, start small, little steps…

…Gerhild. She was Gerhild.

“Any change?”

“Master!” Vilkas jumped up, guiltily dropping her hand back onto the bed. It landed in front of her face, in front of her glazed and listless eyes. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” he countered, but settled himself into the chair Vilkas had vacated. “Aren’t you supposed to be on a job in Riverwood?”

He glanced away, unable to admit his guilt, his actions speaking loud enough already. He moved to the other side of the bed. “I sent Torvar. It was only a wolf, harassing someone’s chickens.”

“No, I suppose you couldn't leave her side, at least not until she either recovers or dies.”

The words were harsh, the tone weak with age. Vilkas didn’t know which hurt more deeply, the rebuke or the guilt. “She should be dead already,” he whispered. “I’ve seen injuries like that before. Most die instantly. How she survived when…” his words broke. His hand reached out over her head, petting the shorn hair that had once been a lustrous golden mane. Almost at the very center of the back side was a large bruised area, the skin still pink and new and not quite healed. Ahlam did the best she could, but the injury was beyond her skill, and beneath the fresh skin the brain and bone were still broken. His hand stroked around the area, like he wanted to make it better himself, but was afraid to touch it.

Kodlak sighed. He was too old and tired for this, but he didn’t have a choice. He knew his days were numbered; though he had hoped he would have died in battle and not in his sleep, it looked like the latter was to be his fate. He wanted to name Vilkas to follow him as Harbinger, but the lad was too bent by his grief, and too overwhelmed by the beastblood. If they could get the cure in time, that would solve one of his problems.

Well, that’s why he was here today. He knew now what needed to be done to cure the lycanthropy. And he would send Vilkas out to see to it. The lad needed to get out, clear his head. Sending him to collect the required items would serve two purposes: make the cure possible and alleviate the negative energy caused by his guilt. And hopefully, by the time he returned, Danica would have been here and Gerhild would be back to her old self.

No, that wasn’t quite right. She’d never be back to her old self, not with her heart broken so badly she had sought a way to end her own life…

He sighed again. One problem at a time, he thought. Vilkas first. He’d deal with Gerhild when she was recovered.

“She survived,” Kodlak said, “And she’ll continued to survive, because she has a greater fate in store for her, than the life she’s already lived. She will survive, because she must, for all our sakes.”

“What do you mean?” Vilkas asked, looking up, his eyes a strange mixture of hopefulness and hopelessness.

“I think you know,” he answered cryptically. “Think on it, if you can get past your own guilt to think clearly, and you’ll figure it out.” He turned his shoulder to Vilkas, looking down at Gerhild staring at her hand. He put his gnarled hand over hers, and saw her blink. “Ah, dear lass, I know you’re in there. I know you can hear us. I know your heart is breaking. But it’s not time for you, yet. I’m sorry, lass, but you must come back to us.”

The light was bright. Hurting her eyes. That’s why there were tears. No other reason. Her eyes hurt. She was Gerhild, and her eyes hurt. That was two thoughts at once; she must be getting better. That was good. Something to make her happy. So why did she feel so sad?

Vilkas sat down heavily, missed the edge of the bed and landed on the floor. “By the Nine…” he breathed, having just put everything together. He turned wide eyes to Kodlak over the top of the bed. “You mean… she’s… Gerhild is… Dragonborn?”

“So, you can still reason. Good. Let’s see if you can reason some more.” Kodlak turned his silver eyes to Vilkas, to a man who had been like a son to him, to a man who was now lost. He was angry with Gerhild for doing this to him, but he couldn’t deal with her now. He was dealing with Vilkas. “What happened yesterday in the practice yard?”

“She…” Vilkas stopped himself. He couldn’t blame her, he simply couldn’t. She was in mourning, excused from her actions. Aye, she had goaded him, but he shouldn’t have given in. The guilt was all his. He picked himself up and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I lost control of my beastblood. I attacked, beat her back, she retreated, tripped on a shield…”

“Shield?” he questioned softly, thinking to himself of all the times Gerhild used her favorite curse. “Stuhn’s Shield.”

“What?” Vilkas was confused, and then thought Kodlak might be confused. “No, a practice shield. Someone left it out or didn’t put it away properly. It was lying on the ground. She tripped on it, just before… Ah, gods! What did I do?” He pushed himself away from the bed and gained his feet, pacing off the extra anger and energy and frustration.

“Tell me,” Kodlak said calmly, completely unfazed by his actions, “What did you do?”

He couldn’t immediately answer, trying to find the words to expunge his guilt. But there were none. Feeling the beast within him howl with rage he answered, “I ran her through! I aimed my sword for her heart and ran her through!”

“You missed her heart,” Kodlak pointed out calmly.

“Only because she tripped on that damned shield!” Spittle was flying from his lips, his arms swinging, emphasizing his words.

Some mysterious little smiled played under Kodlak’s beard, but it was too well hidden by the course white hairs to be seen. “Again, I’ll ask, what happened yesterday? Start at the beginning.”

Vilkas expelled his anger in a heavy breath. With a weary moan he sat down on the bed next to Gerhild again, setting his hand on her back. “I was eating breakfast. Ria came inside from the practice yard, looking upset. I asked her what was wrong, and she said that nothing was wrong, but raced downstairs. I had my suspicions, and went outside to look. Gerhild was there, swinging at a practice dummy. It looked like she was trying to kill it. I was afraid, well, I thought perhaps she had spoken harshly with Ria, about what happened in the Reach, and I took it upon myself to deal with her for it. I know, she lost the man she loved, but that’s no excuse to take it out on an impressionable young whelp like Ria.

“She was angry, Gerhild, attacking that dummy like it was a mortal enemy. I called out something like, you can’t kill a dummy. And she turned to me. She looked at me with this eager expression and asked if I wanted to take its place. She dragged her sword tip on the ground, I know it was on purpose, and the way she smiled so coldly, she knew I knew it. She…”

Kodlak listened to his silence for all of three seconds before he ordered, “Say it, lad. Be honest and say it.”

“It’s not her fault,” he shook his head. “It’s not. She wasn’t thinking straight. She was grieved. She…”

“Say it!”

“She pushed me!” Vilkas snarled, his hand gripping the blanket though not the flesh beneath it. “She goaded me into that fight. Insulted me. Played on my guilt. I thought she just wanted to spill a little blood, and I would’ve let her, I would have let her bleed me dry. But she pressed harder. Blamed me for Skjor’s death. Vorstag’s death. Claimed Jergen abandoned me here because he couldn’t stand the sight of my cowardice…” His head dropped, unable to look Kodlak in the eye.

Aye, Gerhild had a lot to answer for, when she was recovered.

“I know she wasn’t in her right mind…”

“That’s no excuse,” Kodlak cut over his words. “You’re giving her too many excuses, and none to yourself. She forced you, Vilkas. She made you angry the same way you make Farkas angry whenever you feel like letting off a little steam. Only Gerhild didn't want to blow off steam; she wanted to die. And she used you to do it.”

Vilkas didn’t lift his eyes from their study of the floorboards, didn’t move his shoulders or make any sounds, but Kodlak knew he was crying. For all his strength and intelligence and gruff exterior, Vilkas had emotions that were also strong and deep. Aye, he’d make a good Harbinger, once the lycanthropy was cured.

“If it weren’t for this beastblood, I might have kept my head.”

“Still blaming yourself?”

“No, Master,” Vilkas sniffed, lifting wet eyes up to his. “You are right; I’m not to blame. She wanted this, to die, only she can’t yet, can she? Not that she’s immortal, but…”

But Stuhn is watching over his Champion, Kodlak finished in his head, thinking how she would have died, if it hadn’t been for that shield. Well, it was time to finish with Vilkas. He got the lad to admit what happened to Gerhild wasn’t his fault; now to deal with the beastblood. “I have a job for you, lad.”

“I’d rather not,” he said softly, his hand had returned to stroking her back. “Can’t you send someone else?”

“I suppose I could send Aela, only she’s not interested in the cure for lycanthropy; besides, she's fetching Danica from Rorikstead. And I don’t think Farkas could do it; this may require more cunning than strength…”

“The cure?” Vilkas asked. Gods, he was torn: his wanting to see Gerhild recovered pulling on one side, the desire to rid himself of the beastblood pulling on the other side.

“Aye, lad, and I’d rather you do it. Besides, you need the fresh air and exercise and change of scenery. It’d do your mind a wealth of good, a lot better than sitting here day after day just waiting.”

“I…” he looked back at Gerhild, pale and still beneath the covers, her listless eyes staring at a limp hand.

“I know, Vilkas, but you can do nothing to help her. And you can do so much to help me, and yourself, and Farkas. It should only take a week; by then Danica should have returned and Gerhild will be whole once more, and ready to apologize to you, if I have anything to say about it.”

Vilkas stroked her a few more times, wishing she was whole again, not because he wanted an apology, but…

“Where am I going?” he asked, pulling his hand away, “And what do I do once I get there?”

* * *

Time was strange. Sensations were strange.

Stuhn’s Shield, everything was strange!

She was Gerhild. It was hard to focus on anything else, so she simply held on to that one thought. She was Gerhild.

Sometimes she’d hear noises, a voice, perhaps two in conversation. There was someone softly crying, off and on, the sobs feminine and old. There was a different woman’s voice, talking normally and pleasantly, about what she didn’t understand, but the tone was calming. Another woman, abrasive, demanding; she didn’t like that voice. There were masculine voices as well, one deep and gentle and warm and comforting, and made her want to smile. Another was old and wizened, and made her feel like… reminded her of…

She couldn’t remember. She couldn’t remember anything. No! She was Gerhild. Just remember that one thing. She was Gerhild.

Sometimes she’d see things, movement and colors mostly. Occasionally a face or object would solidify, a hand, a smile, tears, a cup. None of it seemed to make sense. All of it seemed familiar, but she couldn’t remember from where…

It was hard to think, hard to remember, and she didn’t really want to struggle any longer, did she? Stuhn’s Shield, but she couldn’t remember! Stuhn… Stuhn was her god. Stuhn was her Protector. Stuhn… Stuhn…?

Why was everything so strange? So hard? So sad?

“How long has she been like this?”

It was a woman’s voice, a new one, though one she’d heard before, with a thick Nordic lilt.

“Since the accident,” Ahlam answered. It was easier to call it that. She had her suspicions, but she’d never speak them out loud. For whatever reason, Gerhild did a foolish thing, and she was very lucky to have survived it. Better to leave it at that, and make sure—after she was well—that she knew how precious a gift was life.

Danica hummed, her main attention on Gerhild’s injury. “And you healed it?”

“As best I could,” Ahlam replied. “I cut her hair so I could see the wound, made sure it was clear of debris. Then I used what Restoration Magic I knew to try to heal her. She’s awake, at least her eyes are open, but she doesn’t seem aware of anything or anyone.”

Again Danica hummed, leaning over the back of her head closely. Then she sat up and pulled on Gerhild’s shoulders. “Help me roll her over. We’re gonna sit her up. Gently now. Watch her head. Lean her against the pillows. That’s it. Now, let me see the chest wound.”

There were new sights before her eyes, colors and movement, a golden brown hood bent in front of her. She focused on it, as it was very close, and it seemed to be the source of one of the voices. The hood moved, and a face appeared.

“Good afternoon, Lady Gerhild. How are you feeling?”

She was Gerhild. She was… Lady?… Gerhild.

Inwardly Danica sighed, disappointed at the lack of response or even a flicker of recognition, but outwardly she smiled in a reassuring manner and touched Gerhild’s cheek. “No, milady, don’t fret,” she said, as if Gerhild had reacted to her question. “Everything’s alright now. Just rest a little longer. You didn’t try to use a healing potion, did you?” She said this last to Ahlam, hovering at her elbow.

“The strongest Arcadia could make,” she answered. “But we haven’t been able to give her very much. She can barely swallow. I was afraid she might choke and…”

Again Danica kept the disappointment at bay. Ahlam wasn’t as experienced as she, and Lady Gerhild’s head injury was severe. “It was just as well. Potions will heal, but leave behind scars, unlike magic which doesn’t scar. An injury to the brain such as this will scar, and the scars would inhibit her mental abilities.”

“I didn’t know; I only wanted to do everything I could,” Ahlam felt the need to defend herself.

“I know,” Danica put her hand on her arm, “And you did very well, with the skills you have. Lady Gerhild is alive, thanks to you. Now, let me finish the job.”

Ahlam stepped back, not because Danica needed the room, but because she felt like she might be intruding if she stood too close. Danica paid her no more attention, her focus on her patient. She had spent days in Rorikstead healing the victims of a dragon attack, and before she could catch her breath a Companion showed up and demanded her presence back in Whiterun. Hearing it was Lady Gerhild who was injured gave her the energy she needed to get back here. But, gods, she was tired.

At least Gerhild also knew Restoration Magic. If she proved too weak, she only had to heal Gerhild far enough that she could finish healing herself. That was the worst case, anyway, not wanting to consider that the injury had lasted too long, that enough of the healing potion had been consumed to partially heal and scar the brain…

No, best not to think about it until she knew whether or not they had to deal with it. She was here, and soon Gerhild would be well again.

She lay there, staring at the hooded woman’s hand, fascinated by what she saw. Tiny ribbons of gold formed and pooled in her palm, catching the candlelight and looking so warm. The woman tipped her hand, the ribbons fell. She watched the ribbons wrap around her body, spread out over her skin, sink in and suffuse her limbs.

Gerhild gasped, feeling the refreshing coolness of the healing spell. The ache in her chest eased, an ache she hadn’t known was there. A headache was pounding her skull as well, splitting her head wide open, or feeling like it. The spell acted upon her head, easing the pounding pressure, melting away the sharpness.

Suddenly it stopped. Danica was exhausted and had to let the spell go. She fell forwards a little, like she would collapse where she sat on the bed. Ahlam was at her side in an instant, but Danica shook her head and waved her off. She braced her hands on the mattress on either side of Gerhild’s legs and lifted her eyes up to her patient.

Gerhild looked at her, blinked, and said with a voice dry from disuse. “Thank you, Danica.”

Then her eyes rolled up into the back of her head.

* * *

Gerhild wasn’t out for long, but Danica and Ahlam were both gone by the time she opened her eyes again. Instead Lydia was there, sitting on a chair with her arms crossed over her chest and a dark scowl creasing her brows, looking very bitchy. Stuhn’s Shield, but that was not a face she wanted to wake up to.

Thinking of the face she did want to wake up to only brought back pain.

Pushing aside the thought of him, she moved her arms and tried to sit up.

“You are awake!”

Lydia sounded surprised, and some of the bitchiness left her features. Immediately her arms were there, supporting and helping Gerhild, lifting her upright and setting the room on its side.

“Aye,” sighed Gerhild, closing her eyes against the dizzy spell. Stuhn’s Shield, but she felt weak as a babe! She clung to Lydia’s shoulder and had to swallow twice before she could make her voice work. “How long…?”

“Nearly a week,” Lydia growled. She held Gerhild in one arm as she adjusted the pillows behind her so she could sit up in bed.

A week? She should have been in Markarth by now… Ah, gods, no. She wasn’t going back to Markarth, ever again if she could help it. What was the point? “What happened?” There, that was a safer topic. She sighed back against the pillows and looked at her again.

“You don’t remember?” Lydia sounded surprised, but she started in on the story with her very next breath. Gerhild listened, strangely fascinated, as Lydia painted Vilkas a villain, sparring with her, goading her on, getting carried away and running her through. “I never trusted that man. There’s something dangerous about him. He’s always picking a fight, drinking too much, cursing…”

It wasn’t long ago Lydia was saying how handsome she thought Vilkas looked. Gerhild supposed she should have rolled her eyes, if it wasn’t for the fact that she couldn’t summon the enthusiasm to do so, much less was afraid it would send the room spinning again.

Besides, her memory came back as Lydia talked, and she had to admit—to herself—that she had been at fault. “Well,” she sighed, her voice still hushed, “It’s over now. I’m well again.” Her hand went up to her hair, feeling the short locks, the almost bald patch over where her skull had been cracked open. She wasn’t as shocked by her hair as she should have been; she knew someone who could fix it—for an outrageous price. First thing after she got back her strength, she would go to Riften…

“Are you?” Lydia pressed. “It’s only that, well, you were acting strangely that day, and you’ve been sick for so long, you hit your head, you were awake but didn’t speak, and we were worried, and Danica was all the way in Rorikstead…”

“Cease, woman!” a voice commanded from the doorway. Both of them looked up, Lydia’s cheeks flushing beneath her rouge, Gerhild’s gaze cool and calm. Kodlak stood there, leaning heavily on Tilma’s arm, huffing as he tried to catch his breath after shouting. “You prattle worse than an old woman.”

Tilma looked on the verge of tears, casting careful though relieved glances at Gerhild as she helped Kodlak to the chair. “Watch what you say,” she scolded, but there was no heat.

He grinned unrepentantly at her, and she made a small sound of disapproval.

“You,” he turned and pointed a finger at Lydia. “It’s late. Why don’t you go upstairs and get something to eat, before the whelps eat it all?”

“But, Harbinger, I’d rather…”

“Go,” Gerhild added her voice to his. When Lydia turned her reproachful dark eyes on her, she added sternly, “Get something to eat. Then go home and get some sleep.”

“I’d rather not leave your side, my Thane,” she replied.

“I’m healed, Lydia, just very tired and weak.”

“But what if something should happen? What if you get injured again…”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” Gerhild waved her off. “I’m safe and sound, surrounded by Companions.”

“Aye, and it was a Companion who injured you.”

Kodlak gave a sharp bark, but stopped in surprise when Gerhild’s cool hand covered his. “That was a stupid accident, Lydia, and you do dishonor to yourself and your Thane by blaming these good people for it. These same people who have cared for me so diligently, and brought Danica here so quickly to heal me.”

She was nearly sweating with exhaustion, the speech far more taxing than it should have been, but it was worth it. Lydia flushed again with shame. She banged her fist to her chest and gave a short bow before turning on her heel and leaving without another word.

Tilma pulled her mouth closed and turned back to Gerhild. “I’m glad you are well again, my dear," she patted her shoulder. “I’ll leave you two alone for a while, then come and collect him before bed time.”

“I’m not a babe needing to be tucked in at night,” Kodlak groused. It was hard for him to hide the smile when Tilma kissed his cheek.

“Of course not. See if you can get her to drink some broth. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

They both waited for Tilma to leave. As soon as the door closed, Kodlak turned his silver eyes to her deep, dead violet eyes.

“Vilkas has been feeling a lot of guilt over what happened, ya know.”

“Aye,” she whispered again, giving one slow blink. “I… I’m not sure what happened… what came over me. Honestly, I don’t know. I woke up that morning, only intending to let off some anger on a practice dummy. When Vilkas showed up, I…” she let out a deep breath, shaking her head, “I stopped thinking. I let some… dark impulse take over. I suppose, as corny as it sounds, I didn’t want to live without Vorstag.

“I realize now that was selfish,” she continued in a cool voice, though not as clear as usual due to the week spent convalescing. “Vorstag had his life, and lived it, and died the way he would have wanted to, in service to the Reach, protecting those he loved and cared about.” She thought about his words to her back in Solstheim, that night they talked about death and shared their deepest fears. “I still have my life, my destiny, my service to others, to all of Nirn. I can’t shirk it just because the man I loved is gone. Nor do I have the right to trick another into ending my life for me.

“I stand by what I said earlier to Lydia. It was stupid. Not an accident, but Lydia doesn’t need to know that. I don’t know if anyone else needs to know that, but you, me and Vilkas. I will apologize to him, but could it wait until tomorrow? I am tired.”

“Aye, lass,” he seemed a little disgruntled that she had stolen his speech from him. “It can wait. He’s on a job, anyways. Left a few days ago, but should be back in a day or two. You’ll speak with him then?”

“Aye,” she nodded.

“Good, good,” he patted her hand. Then he looked at her askance, “Are you… alright… now?”

“No,” she shook her head, “But I will be. In time. Did Tilma say something about some broth? I’m starving.”

Kodlak smiled, though the expression was sad. He could see the wall she was building, a strong wall around her broken heart, a false front to show the world, like the one she had when he first met her. He couldn’t fight that battle tonight, however, and saved it for another day. One problem at a time; he’d get things right between her and Vilkas first. “Aye, lass, it’s right here. Might be a bit cool by now, but it should taste just fine.”

* * *

It was later that night. Gerhild had been dozing, not because she was tired—she’d slept enough this past week—but because she was weak. Tilma had let them talk for far too long, but Kodlak still protested when she came to take him to bed. It took Farkas lifting him to his feet to get him out of the chair.

Then she had been alone, a single candle burning on the bedside table, her thoughts her only companion. Poor company indeed. So she had decided to rest, and close her eyes, and do her best not to think of anything. It wasn’t long until she lightly fell asleep.

The sounds were what woke her. Familiar sounds, feet scuffling, steel clanging against steel and shield, cries of battle and cries of pain. She opened her eyes and expected to find herself near a battlefield.

No, she was in Jorrvaskr, downstairs in the living quarters, tucked safely into bed. So why was she still hearing the din of battle? It sounded like the twins were fighting again upstairs; Kodlak didn’t like it when they fought inside. But that couldn’t be right, because Vilkas wasn’t home, and it was in the middle of the night.

Bang! The sound of a door being kicked in reached her ears. Instantly she was on the alert, pushing herself up on the pillows, looking around for a weapon of any sort.

Bang! Another door burst open, across the hall. There was a dagger lying on a dresser, but it was beyond the foot of the bed. She threw off the covers, giving a half-whispered, “Stuhn’s Shield,” finding herself dressed in nothing but a soft white robe. Where was her armor?

Bang! Her door was kicked off its hinges, a half-crazed bandit standing framed in the doorway. He looked happy to see her, raising his battleaxe above his head as he made to cleave her in two where she lay defenseless on the bed.

 _“Feim Zii Gron,”_ she Shouted. The battleaxe came down and passed right through her body to bite deeply into the mattress. The bandit or whoever he was looked at her with shock and fear as she finally managed to sit up, directly over the blade, untouched as if she were a ghost.

He didn’t pause for long, but it was long enough. She lunged forward, off the bed, and grabbed for the dagger at his waist. As soon as her hand touched the weapon, the protective ghost-like insubstantiality of her body fell away and she became solid once more. Didn’t matter, as the dagger was quickly drawn and quickly plunged into his chest.

Funny, she thought to herself, for some reason thinking the last expression on his face should have been anger, not surprise.

She pulled the dagger out of his burst heart and stumbled back to the bed. Stuhn’s Shield, but she was weak! Through the broken door, however, the sounds of the fighting overhead raged louder, giving her impetus to push to her feet and stagger down the hallway. She didn’t know what she could do to help, but there was no way in Nirn or Oblivion she was going to lie there in bed like a helpless, milk-drinking invalid!

_“Mul!”_

Immediately she felt stronger. She knew it was cheating, using a Shout to shore up her strength, but she didn’t really have a choice, other than to sit out the fight. And that already proved to be risky, the lone enemy finding her downstairs. So she used the first word of the Shout that would give her the aspects of a dragon, only the word that would increase her strength and power. The rest of the Shout would have imbued herself with spectral dragon armor, and in a place where very few knew she was the Dragonborn…? Well, no use tipping her hand if she didn’t need to. Once she reached the upstairs, if she still needed armor, then she’d use the full Shout.

But only if she had to.

 _“Laas Yah Nir,”_ she whispered/Shouted, giving the hall a quick appraisal as she climbed the steps. There were no enemies below, something she should have checked before heading upstairs. There were only a few enemies above, and several friends fighting them. She pushed herself, ignoring the sweat drenching the neckline of her robe, and gained the landing.

She was just in time to see it. Though she shouted a warning, though Farkas heard her and turned, though Kodlak swung his steel warhammer—nearly the size of a man—it all proved too late. The woman Kodlak faced drove her short silver sword up into his chest from beneath his ribs. She wrenched the weapon sideways, blood and guts tumbled out of the opening, and the warhammer fell useless from his hands.

“Kodlak!”

The woman saw Farkas charging at her, and left her sword stuck in Kodlak’s body in favor of securing the pack she held and running away.

Gerhild made herself move, ducking under a swing from an enemy Njada was fighting, reaching Kodlak’s side at almost the same time as Farkas. Immediately her hands glowed with golden ribbons, spilling from between her fingers to trail behind her as she collapsed on the floor beside his still body. She tried. She pressed her hands to his flesh, willed him to breathe—to live!—but the damage had been done.

Silver was deadly to a werewolf.

It had grown silent in the hall. Gerhild lifted her face to look around, seeing the enemies—Silver Hand—were all dead. She looked back down to Kodlak, to the white mane and silver eyes, and could feel nothing but numb. A man who had been like a father to her was dead, and she could not mourn his passing. She reached out and pulled the silver sword from his body and tossed it aside.

A keening, something not quite human, and far too wolfish, sounded from nearby. She looked up again and saw Farkas, clinging to Kodlak’s still-warm hand, his face lifted to the heavens as he cried. In that sound was all the pain she had ever felt over the passing of a loved one, and all the pain she could no longer feel.

“You tried,” Njada said from across the body, “You tried to heal him, but it was too late.” She sniffed, fighting to keep her tears at bay. “Thank you, Lady Gerhild, for trying, at least.”

Gerhild gained her feet, swayed, and steadied herself with a hand on Farkas’ shoulder. He was quiet now; having vocalized his grief he was content to sit there and mourn the man in silence. She gave his shoulder an extra squeeze before she turned away.

Athis was on the floor, lying in a pool of blood, moaning as Ria tried to give him a healing potion. Gerhild waved her off and knelt beside him, using her Restoration Magic to heal him faster.

“What happened?”

Gerhild didn’t have to turn to know it was Vilkas, coming just a few moments too late. By the Nine, but hadn’t he suffered enough? First she used him unfairly, causing him no end of grief and guilt. Now he was absent when the Silver Hand attacked and Kodlak was killed, heaping even more guilt on his shoulders. She watched from a distance as he knelt beside his brother, his own keening shaking the rafters with the force of his grief.

* * *

Pain.

Pain was unending.

Even when Norilar wasn't there—when he gained one of those infrequent respites from the torture and was left alone, chained to the table or strapped to the rack—there was still the memory of pain. His body was marred with half healed wounds: burns, cuts, welts, broken bones, dislocated joints… His bones ached with it. His muscles shook with it. His breath burned with it. His heart was ready to burst with it.

His mind began to anticipate it, imagine it, almost crave it.

He'd see Norilar, and he knew it would come. Pain.

At least the pain kept the fear away. When he felt pain, his mind became too clouded to acknowledge his fear, to remember he was imprisoned, deep under ground, with no hope of ever again seeing the sky or feeling the wind on his face. There was no hope of ever again breathing fresh air, of traveling where he willed simply because he wanted to see a different part of Skyrim. His freedom was gone, something that was more devastating than anything physical pain could inflict, but Norilar was oblivious to this fact.

Yet his loss of freedom still wasn't the most damaging part. The worst thing of all was the knowledge that he'd never see HER again.

His mind shied away from any thought of HER. Perversely it was easy to keep it—keep HER—at bay, pushed out of his consciousness by the perpetual pain. Relentless pain that ate at him, exhausted him, drove him ever closer to the edge.

He felt it, over and over again, that breaking point, that place where the pain was too much, where his body was too weak, where his mind was ready to do anything please I'll do anything say anything you want just tell me and I'll admit to it but please please no more pain make it STOP!

Norilar could see it, too, that point where he'd break and finally speak. Could read it in the wetness of his eyes or in the hopeless expression on his face or in the trembling of his body. Norilar would smile every time he saw it approach, would lean in close like a predator anticipating the kill, and wait for him to moan or whisper or wail the one name he wanted to hear.

Then he'd see it. It was tucked away oh-so-carefully inside that hood, but whenever Norilar came so close he would see it. The stump where an ear used to be. SHE had taken it off. SHE had endured and found the strength to defy the Thalmor. He couldn't betray HER. He couldn't allow Norilar to get his hands on HER again.

Vorstag would see the stump, and he'd straighten his back, unbow his head, work the saliva or blood or whatever was his mouth and spit it in Norilar's face.

"Oblivion take you!"

And they would start all over again.


	19. Whispers of Hope

Gerhild stood in a gown of deepest blue, her hood pulled up to hide her ruined hair. Despite the other changes that had come over her—the cold and hard changes—she had remained vain about her appearance, Vilkas thought to himself. Women!

They stood up at the Skyforge with the others gathered for Kodlak’s funeral. Vilkas almost didn’t make it in time. He had been angry and frustrated that he had missed the fight with the Silver Hand, that Kodlak had died, that the fragments of Wuuthrad had been stolen… Fine, he could admit it, he had been pissed off about a lot of things! A little binge of revenge disguised as a trip to retrieve the fragments had felt selfishly satisfying. And ended emptily. He had killed every last member of the Silver Hand he could find, but Kodlak was still dead and the beastblood still raged within his veins.

And Gerhild was still cold.

He didn’t look at her, other than that first initial glance of curiosity to see who had attended the Harbinger’s funeral. Truthfully he hadn’t seen her since that night, kneeling by Athis’ side, having just healed him from his injury. Vilkas had wondered why she didn’t heal Kodlak, why she didn’t even try, but Njada had told him what happened before he could voice any of his dark thoughts. Gerhild had tried, even though Kodlak had been run through with a sword, she had tried for several minutes to revive him. She had seemed in a trance, unable to accept that Kodlak was gone, continually casting a healing spell on a dead body.

The fight was over before she had been able to accept Kodlak’s death. Then she immediately pushed her exhausted body to her feet to help Athis.

Vilkas was brought back to the present by Aela’s movements. She stepped forward, putting her torch to the pyre, setting Kodlak’s body aflame. People would be leaving now, filing past him to offer condolences, going back to their lives. He accepted their sympathies, nodded his gratitude, gripped forearms in friendship. All of it was superficial.

The other Companions left. Only the three of them remained at the forge, himself, Eorlund and Gerhild. She stood off to the side, as far back as she could from the forge without falling off the edge. Eorlund was also standing aloof, his shoulders bowed with grief while his face remained impassively staring at the flames. Vilkas mentally flipped a septim and decided Eorlund was safer to approach.

“Thank you, Eorlund, for the use of the Skyforge. I know it wasn’t built for this…”

Eorlund blinked the mist out of his eyes. “It might have been. No one knows how old the Skyforge is, or what it was originally intended for. This high up, in the middle of the plains, aye, it might have been meant as a funeral pyre.”

“I suppose,” allowed Vilkas. “It looks like it might take a while for his body to burn away. This isn’t going to set you back too far in your work, is it?”

Eorlund swallowed, unwilling to let his grief show. He was lamenting more than the loss of his friend, Kodlak. He was also mourning the loss of his son, Thorald. “Not much,” he answered. “The forge seems to be burning brighter already, hotter. I don’t think it will take too long before this is finished.” He set a fatherly hand on the shelf around the forge, thinking of his son. He’d disappeared, Eorlund feared captured by the Thalmor. The worst part wasn’t so much that his son was dead, or would soon be dead, but that he and Fralia had no body to mourn over, no closure. She continued to cling to the hope that he was alive because there was no body, and had begun blaming the Battle-Born family and badgering them to release Thorald.

“I ask, because, well,” Vilkas cleared his throat, “I was hoping, when you have the time, that you’d remount the fragments of Wuuthrad for us.”

“You have them?” Eorlund asked, surprised and grateful for something hopeful and bright to think on.

Vilkas nodded. “All but one piece, I think. I’ll go get them for you.”

“I’ll remount them,” Eorlund promised, “First thing after I finish Lady Gerhild’s armor.”

Vilkas nodded, hating the reminder, but he knew he’d have to talk with her next. “Again, my thanks. I’ll get those pieces to you later today.”

Eorlund nodded but otherwise didn’t respond, his mind returning to his lost son.

Vilkas left him to his grief, having heard something about it from Vignar in those few brief moments between his return to Jorrvaskr and Kodlak’s funeral. He pushed it aside; it wasn't anything he could help with, or the Companions—they didn’t get involved with politics, especially politics involving the Thalmor. Besides, Thorald was undoubtedly dead already, his body left to rot in some forgotten hollow on the plains. It might be better if he was never found; as painful as the not knowing was for Fralia, it would be better than the truth, like the story he had brought back for Gerhild.

As if summoned by his thoughts he felt her following him, smelled the lavender from her soap and the underlying musky scent of something akin to ancient skies and long-forgotten battles. He didn't stop, his steps carrying him around the outside of Jorrvaskr, past the porch, to the wall behind the practice yard. There he stood, leaning against the battlements, looking eastward at the surrounding plains and distant mountains.

She came up beside him, acting almost timid, standing a little ways off and viewing him rather than the scenery. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly, still not wanting to talk with her but knowing it had to be done, before lifting his face up to hers.

Gerhild didn’t flinch. She saw the pain and grief and guilt on his features, a lot of it caused by her, and she made herself face what she had done to him. “I’d like to talk with you, please,” she said in a cool, clear voice.

He nodded, but remained leaning against the stonework, turning back to stare at nothing.

She finished approaching, standing beside him and facing the same direction. It was easier to ignore the painful feelings associated with recent events, if she didn’t look at him. “I am sorry, Vilkas. I could stand here and tell you I wasn’t thinking straight, I wasn’t thinking at all, I was grieved, or a dozen other excuses. It doesn’t change the fact that I hurt you deeply, when I made you mad enough to take my life…”

“Gods,” he choked, his tone fierce but quiet, carrying out over the empty plains rather than the practice yard, “How can you stand there and say it so calmly?!” He didn’t look at her either.

She put her hand next to his, a warm gesture, though her fingers were as cool as the stonework. “Because I have to.”

“That’s no answer at all,” he groused, pulling his hand away from hers.

She took a deep breath, but since he hadn’t moved away, he must be willing to talk with her. Carefully she tried to make him understand. “I have very strong emotions. They overwhelm me. Sometimes, a lot of times, the only way I can function is if I deny them.”

“A lot of people have strong emotions,” he argued, turning to face her. “I have strong emotions, thanks to the beastblood. But I face my emotions, I deal with them and accept them and learn to cope with them. You should try it.”

“I did,” now it was her turn to face away before the trembling could reach her voice. “I let my emotions rule me, I embraced them, and it ended by my goading you and using you to try to kill myself.”

“Because you were afraid,” he reached out to grip her hand, both of them reversed from their initial stances. “Don’t be, Gerhild. It hurts, aye, I know it hurts. But it was worth it, to love him, for however short a time. It gave you strength, courage, honor, joy, peace… so many good things came from your love of Vorstag. Don’t deny it now. Don’t grow cold and turn away from the rest of us.” If there was the hope for something more in his voice, neither of them acknowledged it.

She shook her head, lifting deep violet eyes as cold as the grave to face his shining silver irises. “I cannot. I dare not. I will, later, after I’ve… finished with something. But I can’t handle the distraction right now. There’s too much to do, too much still in store for me…”

“You mean Alduin?” A delicate golden eyebrow rose at his statement. “Aye, Gerhild, I know you are Dragonborn. Kodlak, well, he didn’t tell me, but he made me reason it through, while you were… ill.”

She nodded, and stated without heat, “Meddlesome old fool.”

“He was that,” Vilkas agreed, “And a good friend.”

“And a better father,” she added. He wondered if it was because she knew Vilkas had looked to him as a father-figure, or because she had seen him in that light. Then he decided it didn’t matter.

“Alright, apology accepted. Things are back to normal between us, right?”

She nodded quietly, but turned away.

Vilkas hated to admit defeat. “Tell you what,” he said, laying an arm across her shoulders, “When this is all done, when Alduin is defeated and the dragons are no more, come back here. We’ll go someplace private, you and I, and you can let out these overwhelming emotions of yours, kick and bite and scream and tear your hair out. And I’ll listen. Deal?”

She dropped her gaze to her hands, clasped together on top of the battlements. “Aye…”

They stood quietly for a few moments, just breathing, lost in their thoughts. Vilkas didn’t want to move, even though he knew he still had other matters to attend to, not the least of which was deciding who would be the next Harbinger. Kodlak hadn’t said who was to follow him, unless he left something in his journal. He made a note to look for that later. Right now, he stalled for time. “So, you’re all well again?”

“If you’re asking about my head,” she turned towards him, “Aye, I’m well. Danica healed the injury completely, and there hadn’t been enough healing potion used to leave any scarring. Everything works like it’s supposed to, my memories, Restoration Magic, Shouting, everything.”

He nodded, sliding his hand from her shoulder down her arm. “What are your plans, now?”

She smiled at him, her dimples flashing impishly, but none of the emotion reached her dead violet eyes. “Keeping an eye on me?”

He shrugged. “Just curious. Kinda want to keep tabs on the one person who can save us from Alduin.”

She rolled her eyes, a practiced reaction, an act without substance, like a performance in a play. “I have a little personal matter to attend to,” she thought about her hair, and the face sculptor in Riften, but she wasn’t going to admit it. “Then I’ll be back here, to pick up my new armor from Eorlund.”

He nodded, feeling her already pulling away as if she would leave that very moment. “When you return, make sure you stop in and see us, will you?”

She smiled and reached up to brush cool lips against his stubbled cheek. “It wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t. Goodbye, Vilkas.”

Aye, she was leaving, had only stayed long enough to apologize for causing him such grief. “Lady Gerhild,” he inclined his head. Gods, he would have loved to love her, but her heart was so broken, he doubted she would ever again consider trying to love. No, he thought as he watched her walk away to disappear around the corner of Jorrvaskr, Gerhild wasn't a woman easily loved, or easily held. How Vorstag had ever managed it, had to be nothing short of a miracle. He still thought it was odd—had thought Vorstag was gay—but the proof was indisputable: they had been lovers.

And now she was alone.

His steps were heavy as he entered the mead hall of the Companions. The others were sitting or standing around, talking in quiet, small groups. Aela was by herself, staring at the central fire pit, almost as cold and unresponsive as Gerhild. Farkas was standing and talking with Vignar, or rather Vignar was talking and Farkas was nodding his head, thinking that was what Vignar wanted him to do. The old man saw Vilkas and nodded to him, but Vilkas turned for the stairs before he could engage him in conversation. He really didn’t feel like talking with anyone right then.

He walked slowly, almost dropping his weight on each stair step. Gods, he was tired, but there was no time to rest yet. He had to bring the pieces of Wuuthrad to Eorlund, though there was no rush to do that. They were without a Harbinger, a matter that he currently couldn’t do anything about. They were also still infected with the beastblood, but that was something he might be able to rectify. He remembered Kodlak telling him there was a reason he wanted the heads of those damnable witches, but he died moments before Vilkas returned with them. And Vilkas didn’t know what to do with the disgusting things now that he had them. He thought—hoped—that Kodlak had written down something in his journal that would tell him what to do.

Kodlak’s quarters were undisturbed; even Tilma hadn’t gone in to straighten up or dust or anything. Vilkas paused in the doorway, thinking over the past few weeks, all the excitement and heartache and fighting…

“Vignar says it should be you.”

Vilkas didn’t welcome his brother’s voice just then, either, but he didn’t have the heart to even snap at him.

“He says you should be… should be the new Kodlak, or whatever.”

“Vignar isn’t on the Circle,” Vilkas argued half-heartedly. He crossed the threshold and made for the bedchamber door. Kodlak kept his journal beside his bed.

“He’s smart, though, smarter than me.” Farkas followed like a puppy anxious for attention.

“That doesn’t take much.” It was an automatic response, something he’d said a hundred times before, and would probably say a hundred times more, spoken without heat or meanness.

“Oh, I know that, but he does make sense. You should talk with him; you’ll see.” He picked up the rumpled blanket from the bed, and half-heartedly pulled it up towards the pillows. “Tilma hasn’t been in here, has she?”

“No,” Vilkas sighed, seeing the journal in the bedside table drawer. “No one has.” He rubbed at his eye with one finger while he picked the book up with his other hand. Something heavy fell out of it, landing on the floor next to his boot.

“What’s that?” Farkas pointed, his eyes squinted as he tried to figure it out.

“I… I don’t…” Vilkas bent over to pick it up. It was a chunk of dark metal, ebony, and as soon as his fingers touched it, he knew it was the last piece of Wuuthrad. “I don’t believe it. He kept the last piece in his journal?”

“Last piece of what?” He peered over his brother’s shoulder, something he could easily do being the larger of the two. “Looks like a puzzle piece or something. Did Kodlak like to do puzzles?”

“He liked this one,” Vilkas admitted, opening the journal and turning to the page where the piece had been tucked. His eyes quickly scanned the spidery script while he fingered the fragment. “Stuhn’s Shield.”

Farkas lost interest as soon as it looked like Vilkas was actually going to read the journal. Not that Farkas couldn’t read, but he only did when he had to, like a road sign or a map or something. “Now you sound like Gerhild. She wants to talk with you, by the way.”

“What?” Vilkas jerked his head up, hardly believing what he had read, much less hearing what Farkas had said.

“Not what, who. Gerhild, that’s who. And you’re supposed to be the one with the brains.”

“We’ve already spoken,” he began, snapping shut the journal. He’d have to read it later, when he had time to concentrate on it, but things were beginning to become clear. “Farkas, how would you like to be cured of the beastblood?”

“I… I didn’t know, I mean, you can really do that?”

“I might, you might, but I want to know, brother, how you feel about it.”

“I…” he paused to swallow, shrugged, and replied, “I guess I’d rather not go to the Hunting Grounds after I die. I know Aela wants to go there, as Skjor did, as I suppose Kodlak has done, but I’d rather go to Sovngarde. If that’s alright with you.”

Vilkas smiled, slapping his fists on Farkas’ shoulders, one hand holding the fragment and the other the journal. “I’d rather go to Sovngarde, too. And, I think Kodlak found a way to do it, even after death. Come on,” he said, pulling him along with the force of his emotions. For the first time in weeks, his heart felt light again, light with hope. “I want to bring this piece along with the others to Eorlund. Then we have to speak with Aela. There are a lot of plans to make!”

* * *

Vorstag lay on the table, wrists and ankles chained, not that he had the strength to move. Norilar straddled him, a knee to either side, the bulge in his pants rocking obscenely against his inert body as Norilar slowly shifted up and down, back and forth, over and over. At the top of each pass, he'd press the small-bladed knife a little deeper into the cut in his flesh. Then he'd slowly shift down, dragging the knife with him, stimulating himself through his clothing. Each pass of the knife pushed a little deeper into Vorstag's chest.

Vorstag would not give in. He would not betray THE WOMAN he loved. He felt the blood pooling in the back of his throat, threatening to drown him.

If only he could drown…

“Just breathe the name,” Norilar cooed, stroking himself with one hand as he deepened the cut with the other. “That’s all you have to do, tell me one little name, and all this will stop. It’s not like I don’t know her name already, I only want to hear you say it.”

Lung punctured, he diagnosed while ignoring Norilar, bleeding into airways. He knew it was the feel of liquid in the back of his throat that triggered the reflex to swallow. He wouldn’t be able to drown, the bleeding was too slow. But if he made Norilar angry enough, he might cut too deep and he’d bleed too quickly and then he just might manage to… Gods, he must be going mad! How else could he even consider this?

There was no answer to that, at least not one that the gods would tell him.

Hadvar had been driven mad before his death. Vorstag had seen it in his eyes, the emptiness, the hopelessness, the almost welcoming anticipation of pain. Maybe that’s why the gods hadn’t granted him that final peace, yet; he wasn’t mad enough.

Norilar had finally finished with the slicing.  His fingers slipped in between Vorstag's ribs and tightened, making him grimace almost hard enough to crack his teeth, driving away all other thought, leaving behind only the pain. He couldn’t breathe, could barely hear the heavy panting above him. His heart stopped within Norilar's clenched fist. Don’t start again, he begged it, so close, stay still, let me die.

The hand relaxed. A lightning spell followed, short and mild, making his body jolt. He gasped as his heart started beating again. No death this time. Could there ever be a time that Norilar would go too far and kill him, like he had with Hadvar? Could he dare hold on to that hope?

“You are a joy, Vorstag,” Norilar panted above him, adjusting the front of his leggings. “So stubborn. So strong. I have loved our sessions together, how long it’s taking to break you. But the end is nearing, I can tell. I have experience in these matters. You will speak, and soon. You will tell me the given name of the woman who calls herself Dragonborn. You will tell me everything you know about her.” His hand lowered again, and Vorstag could feel those gloved fingers pushing aside sliced flesh and spreading apart rib bones as they clawed around his heart.

Not a sound, he told himself. Not a word. Don’t betray HER. You love HER. SHE must remain free.

But GODS THE PAIN!

“Excuse me, Master,” Sorcal’s mild voice called from the doorway.

“Damn it!” Norilar cursed, leaning back from Vorstag. “I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed this afternoon.”

“I know, but a new ‘guest’ has arrived,” he continued, avoiding looking at Norilar as he got down from the table and adjusted his clothing. “By Elenwen’s orders, you are to interrogate this latest Nord on the suspicion of being a Stormcloak spy.”

Vorstag heard Norilar grumble and the rustling of parchment on the other side of the room. Norilar had left him without casting a healing spell; he could feel the blood continue to fill his airways. He coughed wetly; reflex, again. If he could suppress his reflexes, lie passive and let his throat fill up…

Sorcal must have heard him. He approached and cast the spell, never healing him completely but keeping him from choking, damn him.

“Where is he now?”

“Still out in the courtyard. The guards are having a bit of sport, kicking him around, softening him up.”

Norilar made some sort of noncommittal sound, “Have him brought in here when they’re through. Chain him to the wall. We’ll leave the two alone to introduce themselves. Oh, Vorstag,” he called as he left, “Be a good host to our newest guest, would you? Make sure he’s comfortable and show him around.” He laughed at his little joke, before closing the door behind him.

There was still some blood in the back of his throat, but not enough to drown on. He swallowed, taking the time to lie there with his eyes closed and just breathe. Why was he still alive? What purpose did it serve? Aye, he knew Norilar wanted him to reveal the identity of the Dragonborn, but by now it had to be obvious he wasn’t going to break. All those times he drew close to it—he felt shame over his weakness, but he’d see that stump and grow strong again. After all those times, he never expressed anything more than his wish for Norilar to go to Oblivion.

Why wouldn’t he just end it!?

The door opened. Even though he knew what he would see, he still had to turn his head and look.

A man, Nord judging by his build, hung limply between two guards, his body beaten and bruised and barely holding on to consciousness. Vorstag had first feared someone he knew had been taken captive, like Ralof, but from what he could see, he didn’t know this man. His hair was gray, but his face was too far lowered to give him a clear view.

Stormcloak spy, he thought to himself with a maddening though silent little laugh, he’d been a Stormcloak spy. Gods, what would Norilar do if he knew that? Probably no different than he was doing now. He pushed the thoughts away and looked again at the Nord. The guards had yanked his head up by the hair, checking to see he was still breathing, before letting it drop back down to his chest.

He was familiar, Vorstag realized with a start, but not exactly. He reminded him of someone… someone he had met… Stuhn’s Shield, when was that…?

Time had lost meaning. He never tried to figure out how long he’d been a prisoner, trying instead to forget things as they happened. He focused his thoughts on the ‘Time Before,’ as he called it, when he was still alive and free and traveling with HER…

That was it! The prematurely grayish brown hair, the high cheekbones, the long chin, the line of the brow… He was a Gray-Mane from Whiterun! Had to be. He didn’t think they’d met, but he looked so much like Eorlund, the blacksmith for the Companions, and his daughter Olfina, the verbally abrasive waitress at the Bannered Mare.

Vorstag swallowed, seeing that the man had lifted his head far enough to notice him staring…

Thorald didn’t want to, but he looked around at his surroundings, curious and fearful of what he’d find. He’d kept his eyes closed when the guards lifted his face up because he didn’t want them to know he was awake, in case they wanted to hit him some more. He had feigned unconsciousness, but now that they were gone, he lifted his face up and looked around.

And caught the eye of the man chained to the table. By Talos, what had they done to him? Was such a fate in store for him, too? They locked eyes, and Thorald saw the unending torment he had suffered, and was still suffering, illuminated within dark brown eyes.

They didn’t speak, their features sharing enough of themselves under the circumstances. Thorald was still strong and defiant, though fearful of the unknown future looming before him. Vorstag was weak physically though still defiant in spirit, and he knew what the future held for himself, and for the Gray-Mane. He turned his face away, staring at the ceiling. There was nothing more to say.

Thorald swallowed, feeling like he wanted to piss himself. The Nord had looked at him with eyes that spoke of the horrors that were to come, of pain and fear and torment unimaginable, and yet somehow he endured. Whatever was keeping the man alive, it had to be something—or someone—very special, very strong, very important.

He didn’t know how long it was before the door opened. He flinched at the sound, tried to gain his feet, found his wrists prevented him from doing so, and defeatedly dropped back to his knees. Damn the Thalmor. If he ever got out of this… Oh, who was he kidding? He was in Northwatch Keep, where people are never heard from again. He would die here, he knew that, it was only a question of when. And if the Nord on the table was anything to go by, the answer held no comfort.

“Ah, Thorald Gray-Mane, is it? Stormcloak sympathizer, spy, and worshiper of Talos.” Norilar almost purred the accusations against the man, spoken like they were foregone conclusions, which in his mind they were. “I trust Vorstag has made you feel welcomed? Given you the tour? Do you have any questions that he hasn’t answered?”

No, Thorald thought to himself, but he didn’t answer other than shooting the Thalmor a dirty look.

Norilar laughed. He really loved his job. The time he had spent away from interrogating had been frustrating, all thanks to his disgrace. But since being assigned at Northwatch Keep, he’d had the chance to make up for that mishap, to rebuild his career, and he was doing so well. Soon, so soon, he would break Vorstag and learn the identity of the Dragonborn, and perhaps even prove she and that Nordic bitch who bit his ear were one and the same. That would put a spike in Ondolemar’s wheel.

Thinking about it that way, he supposed he didn’t mind Elenwen’s order to interrogate this latest Nord. With Vorstag so close to breaking, he’d be a good object lesson for Thorald, and then he could toss Vorstag into a cell to torture at his leisure, while he started on a fresh Thorald.

Yes, he felt the pleasurable shudder purr through his body, he loved his work.

* * *

“Oh, just touch it and get it over with!”

Vilkas blinked, startled from his thoughts. Aela chuckled behind her hand, and Farkas looked between his brother and Gerhild, bewildered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Vilkas tried to put as much dignity into his words as possible.

Gerhild lifted one delicate golden eyebrow as she turned to face him. She was wearing her new ebony armor, a beautiful suit with matching bow, war axe, dagger and shield, all the items decorated with silver inlay in a delicate and skillful Nordic design. She had her helmet off, as it was very stuffy and there was no need to wear it while the four of them were traveling. “I can feel you staring at the back of my head,” she stated clearly, walking backwards to keep him in sight as they continued down the road. “Just touch the hair, give it a yank, satisfy your curiosity. It’s real.”

“Don’t know how you did it,” Aela hummed somewhat jealously, as she tried to ignore Vilkas very deliberately moving his hands behind his back. “You were gone only a couple of weeks, but it looks as it did before the accident.”

That’s what most of the people called Gerhild’s attempted suicide, whether or not they knew the truth. It was a nice lie, made by nice people, and she was grateful for their forgiveness and understanding. And for Vilkas’ acceptance of her apology. She had wronged him deepest of all, but he had forgiven her. “I’m afraid it’s a very closely guarded secret,” she answered Aela, “But if you ever have your hair shorn by an overzealous healer, just get a hold of me and we’ll take care of it.”

Aela laughed, as did Farkas. Gerhild smiled with her cold, emotionless eyes. But Vilkas remained sober. Gerhild turned to face forward once more and slowed her steps minimally, until she was beside him and the other two had moved ahead a ways.

“What’s on your mind, Harbinger?” she asked quietly.

Harbinger, he thought, still trying to get used to the idea. So much had happened in the past month, he felt he should be reeling from the blow. Gerhild had returned to Whiterun as promised, with a full head of hair braided in its customary style, which made Ahlam nearly faint with shock. Eorlund, after giving Gerhild her new ebony kit, had presented the Circle with the legendary battleaxe Wuuthrad, not in pieces, but reforged. And, with the battleaxe whole, Vilkas knew the beastblood could be cured, and Kodlak’s soul saved from Hircine’s Hunting Grounds.

Gerhild had insisted on going with them, in part, she claimed, to repay her debt to them. He knew the real reason why, the self-imposed guilt she denied feeling. He allowed her lie and the four of them had gone to Ysgramor’s tomb, reached the inner chamber where Kodlak’s spirit was hiding with other bygone Harbingers, and defeated Kodlak’s wolf spirit to free him. Kodlak, before leaving for Sovngarde, had named Vilkas his successor, and the title was still settling down on his shoulders.

He took a deep breath, inhaling through his nose. Before leaving Ysgramor’s tomb, he had taken the opportunity to defeat his own wolf spirit, Farkas following suit as always, though Aela refused as she still saw lycanthropy as a blessing. It surprised him, how much calmer he felt now that his wolf spirit had been banished. And how dulled his senses seemed. A breath like he just took should have given him an idea of everything nearby, but he hadn’t even noticed Aela’s scent. “You’ll be leaving, won’t you? Soon as we get back?”

Gerhild took her own time answering, as he had taken his time, her thoughts just as mysterious to him as his had been to her. “Aye. I’ve got things to do. Wasted too much time already.”

“Coming with us to free Kodlak’s spirit was a waste of time?” he teased.

She made a face and whacked her armored shoulder against his. “That’s not what I meant.”

He laughed, and she did, too, though he was sure she didn’t allow herself to feel it. “Gerhild,” he stopped and took her gauntleted hand in his. They had reached the outskirts of Whiterun, and he selfishly wished to delay their parting as long as possible, “At least stay tonight and dine with us in Jorrvaskr. Kodlak’s victory deserves a feast.”

“As does the naming of a new Harbinger,” she reminded him. “Aye, I’ll stay for tonight, at least. And I’ll see you again, my friend. I have all my correspondence forwarded here to Whiterun, so I have to check in quite often. Each time, I’ll stop by and visit with you, just as I visited with Kodlak.”

“And you’ll remember your promise,” he gave her hand a squeeze, “To learn to cope with your emotions, instead of hiding from them?”

There was a flicker of something that crossed her eyes, but it was too brief for him to define it. “After Alduin is defeated,” she hedged quietly, “I’ll learn to live with… everything. Until then, I have to do it this way. It’s too overwhelming, otherwise, to even let myself consider what lies ahead of me…”

He nodded, sadly, but accepted it. She had been through a lot, and there was a lot more to come. It was easy to forget, especially after all she’d already accomplished, and while she walked beside him in formidable ebony armor, that she really was a young woman barely past girlhood, not yet twenty years of age. Aye, he knew plenty of girls younger than her already married and having children, but they didn’t speak in Thu’ums and consume the souls of dragons. He had been surprised to find a word wall atop Ysgramor’s tomb, as had Gerhild, but she eagerly raced forward to learn the word taught by voices only she could hear. It had been an eerie thing to watch, but he was glad he had witnessed it.

And glad Aela and Farkas had missed it, communing in the tomb below them.

They were now in Whiterun, walking through the marketplace on their way to the mead hall. A small scene caught Gerhild’s eye, and she pulled away from the others. “I’ll catch you up,” she promised before she drifted off to the side of Fralia’s stall. Vilkas let her go, knowing she often like to stop and chat with Fralia, and didn’t think anything more of it.

At least until she caught up with him half an hour later. Her eyes were cold and hard like steel, and her feet pounded up the stone steps to the Skyforge, where he was talking with Eorlund and dropping off his sword to get sharpened. Both men turned and looked at her, and Eorlund mistakenly thought she was pissed off at Vilkas again.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

“Eorlund Gray-Mane!” she stalked up to him, shaking her finger under his nose. “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“About what?” he asked, exchanging a bewildered look with Vilkas, who was quietly stepping back out of the way.

“The whole time I was here getting fitted for my armor,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him, “Even earlier, back during Kodlak’s funeral. You haven’t mentioned one word about him. Not one. Didn’t you think I would help, considering all you’ve done for me?”

Eorlund’s face darkened; at last he knew what the fuck she was talking about. Vilkas continued to back away, slowly.

“I had to overhear a conversation about it in the marketplace, between your wife and the Battle-Borns. That’s the first I heard about…”

“She has no right to keep bothering them,” he ground out, his voice dangerous and low. “Thorald is dead! The sooner she comes to grips with that, the better she’ll be.”

Gerhild seemed taken aback for a moment. “Eorlund, he’s your son. If there’s any chance…”

“There’s no chance!” he interrupted her again. “He’d never let the Thalmor take him alive. So leave it be, Lady Gerhild. I’m warning you. Leave. It. Be.” He turned his back to her, sitting down at the grindstone to work on Vilkas’ sword.

She stared at his back, her expression also dark. Vilkas thought it might be time to step in and tried to lead her away, but she shrugged his grip off her elbow. Instead she walked around to stand near Eorlund's side, close enough to be heard over the metallic grinding. “You’re prideful, I understand that, I really do. But a man is measured by the number of his friends, his strength by their combined strength. And I consider us to be friends. You KNOW me, Eorlund, WHO I am, WHAT I am. You know I have a strong dislike of Thalmor. I’m not asking for permission; I’m telling you: I will look into this. If nothing else,” she made to set her hand on his shoulder, thought better of it and let her hand drop to her side, “I can discover what happened and give Fralia closure. It’s not right to let her suffer under false hope.”

He continued to work on the sword, but after a moment he did deign to reply over his shoulder, “Do what you feel you must; I can’t stop you. But Thorald is dead. It would be kindest to leave us to our grief.”

She nodded, but he had already returned to his work.

She let Vilkas lead her away then, her eyes distant and calculating, and he knew she was going to move the heavens and Nirn to find Thorald, or learn what became of him. “You don’t have to,” he said softly. “You can make up a story, something Fralia would believe.”

“I could,” she agreed, stepping into Jorrvaskr by his side, “But I won’t. She needs to know, even if it’s that her son is dead, she needs to know the truth. It’s not fair to leave her like this, in limbo, hanging on to the hope that he’s alive simply because no one has proven that he’s dead. One way or another, she needs closure. I would if I were in her shoes. I did. Besides,” she stopped just short of the table, “I have an unreasonable hatred towards the Thalmor. I’ll take every excuse I can to bloody their noses. And this little opportunity is gods-sent.”

He saw it then, the bloodlust in her eyes, the thirst for Thalmor blood. He would have shivered, but she had moved away to embrace Farkas.

Gods, but for the first—and only—time in his life, he pitied the Thalmor.

* * *

Norilar had his favorites.

Most often he used the table where he could restrain his victims, straddle their crotches while he delved his hands into their flesh, and as he watched them near death he'd find his release.

Face down on the rack was another of Norilar's favorite tortures. It was bad enough for the victims, feeling their limbs stretch, their joints pop and bones break. Yet he would have his victims stretch taught, just beneath the point of breaking, and then he would sodomize them. The pain and humiliation he caused was compounded when the force of his thrusts became just enough to rip the overstretched bones and muscles and ligaments.

But Vorstag was face up on the rack today, going through what had to be the longest session yet. One Thalmor would turn the wheel slowly while Norilar stood before him expectantly. Vorstag would feel every inch of the stretch, split, jolt, the pain making him dizzy and rolling his eyes up into his head. Then the tension would be loosened, Norilar would heal him, and it would start again.

He never bothered to count the times, but he knew this session far outlasted the others. Norilar was sweating, his face twisted into a grimace beneath his hood, the failure radiating off his body like heat. It was his only solace, frustrating Norilar. Again that face leaned in close to him, the eyes boring holes in his, willing him to speak. He saw the stump where an ear had been, and remembered that SHE had taken it off. He used to think it had only been the tip of the ear, but looking at it now, he saw it had been the whole ear, skin and cartilage ripped away from bone. All that remained was a deformed and misshapen lump twisting around a dark hole. Again he found the courage to defy him.

Vorstag’s head was leaning against an up-stretched bicep, his muscles too weak to support his head for too long. He worked his tongue around his mouth before he could spit on the face in front of him. The spittle, pink with blood, landed on the side of Norilar’s nose and slid down onto his lips, threatening to drip into his mouth.

“Ob… Oblivion… take you…” he panted, leaning back against the straps.

Norilar ignored the wet, staring intently at him. “I don’t understand,” he admitted softly, the calmness more unnerving than the anger from only a moment before. “You should have broken weeks ago. I’ve seen it in your eyes; you've wanted to tell me her name, have come so close to doing so. Yet you continue to find the strength to endure. How?”

Gods, how much more could he endure? The stupid, crazy plan came back to mind, the one of making Norilar so mad he would lose control and kill him. It seemed his only chance—that maybe, just maybe, if Vorstag mentioned his disfigurement, if he told the truth, maybe Norilar would lose his temper and end this for him. Arkay have mercy on me, he prayed.

“Every time,” he began, still panting, his body weak with the shock of injury, even if no wounds remained. “Every time… you come close… I see it… I see… under your hood… the stump… of your ear… and I think… someone… someone defied you… someone bit it off… someone… remained strong… so can I…”

He’d seen HER go into a cold rage before; Norilar wasn’t as bad, but this time Vorstag was the one in the line of fire. Despite his earlier resolve to face death, his body tried to cringe away from the wrath. “This gives you courage?” Norilar demanded, stepping closer. He wrenched the hood off, turning his head to present the deformed ear to him. It was so close, his eyes couldn’t focus on it.

“This keeps you from speaking? The sight of my disgrace? You bastard!” He pulled back to strike Vorstag, sending his head knocking into the other arm. “You dare to…! Sorcal!”

“Yes, Master,” the mild-toned assistant answered from somewhere near Thorald.

Norilar shoved the side of his head into Vorstag's face again. “Look closely, Vorstag. Get a real good look. Notice very detail, every scar of every rip. Get your fill of it now, because it will be the last thing you ever see. Sorcal, take his sight!”

Thorald wanted to scream in sympathetic rage, but he could only stare. Sorcal had cast a paralysis spell on him, as he usually tried to turn away and not watch these sessions. He hung from his wrists on the wall, his head held up and aimed at the rack by the gloved hand of another Thalmor assistant. Not only could he not close his eyes, but he could not close his ears. He heard the sounds, the moans and whimpers of pain Vorstag refused to voice while trying to writhe within his restraints; the heavy panting of Norilar as he kept his missing ear towards him, his eyes glazed over with a disgusting mixture of rage and lust; Sorcal’s disturbing little hums as he went about his grisly chore as if he was merely dusting the furniture.

Talos take them, Thorald prayed silently in his head.

At last it was over. Sorcal handed Norilar a bottle of healing potion. He held Vorstag’s mouth open while Norilar poured the liquid down his throat. Vorstag tried to choke on it, tried to spit it back out, but he was too weak to resist them. Enough of it was swallowed to do the job, and the two Thalmor stood back to admire their handiwork. Thorald watched as Vorstag’s face fell towards him, unseeing eyes now scarred a milky white.

“Nice job, Sorcal,” Norilar was calm once more, which would have sent a shiver of fear down Thorald’s spine, if he could have moved. “You cut only the eyes, not the flesh around them, didn't even damage a single eyelash. Your skills are growing.”

“Thank you, Master.” His mildness was also perturbing, as always. He walked back to stand beside Thorald as Norilar once more replaced his hood. The Head Interrogator nodded to the assistant at the wheel, and the rack was tightened again.

Vorstag didn't notice the pain so much anymore; it was easier to ignore it when he couldn't see what was happening. He didn't notice the darkness, either, as the chamber had been so dark to begin with, this was only one shade more. To him, the dark became a blank canvas. In his mind, he wasn't blind, so much as he now could see whatever he wished to see. He pictured the snows in the mountains of the Reach, glistening in bright sunlight like powdery diamonds.

He pictured the Sea of Ghosts, heavy and blue, the port at Raven Rock on the horizon.

He pictured himself sitting on his favorite chair in the Silver-Blood Inn, his ankles crossed and his long legs stretched towards the fire, Ogmund on the other side of the hearth singing his favorite songs.

He pictured HER, standing in a rich gown of dark red velvet, hair unbraided and falling down HER back in rivulets like water down a waterfall, HER perfect cheeks marred by a pair of perfect dimples, HER dark violet eyes so deep he could drown in them…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. This is still the hardest chapter I've ever written. If I almost couldn't post it the first time on that other site, this time was even worse. I created one sick psycho in Norilar, and thanks to my promise to take advantage of the Explicit rating, I got to describe in detail just how sick he is (and really disturb myself). But this is the darkest my story gets (no pun intended). If you made it this far, thank you; I promise I will restore your faith in me.


	20. The Ebony Warrior

22nd Rain’s Hand: 4E 204

She was selfish; she could admit it.

If people knew of Gerhild’s history with the Thalmor, she didn’t think anyone would be surprised to hear of her selfishness—or blame her for it.

But few people knew how they had treated her, how that Thalmor Interrogator, Norilar, had tortured and raped her. Both he and his assistant. Most only knew she had an unreasonable hatred for all things related to the Thalmor. Most were grateful for that fact. And most didn’t bother to consider—or at least to ask—why.

So it was with no small amount of sulking anger that she looked at Avulstein Gray-Mane and his two friends, Vidrald and Geirlund. She hadn’t expected to find them here, not fifty yards from Northwatch Keep, hiding in the snowbanks, scouting the area. She had spent the past couple of weeks tracking down the whereabouts of Thorald. After careful and circumspect questioning of Idolaf Battle-Born, she had secured the letter he had received from General Tullius stating that Thorald was being kept in Northwatch Keep—from which people never return. She hadn’t shared this with the Gray-Manes; Fralia had enough pain and heartache already. But she vowed to herself that she would go to Northwatch Keep, kill every Thalmor there, and at the very least return Thorald’s body to his family.

Though she hoped to find him alive. Being intimate with the Thalmor’s techniques, she knew how they liked to keep their newest prisoners chained to a wall and force them to watch another’s torture, before being tortured themselves. That meant there was time, there was hope, that she could reach and free Thorald before his torture began.

She had left Whiterun in her ebony armor. She hadn’t told anyone where she was going, or even that she was leaving. Yet apparently Avulstein and his two buddies had conducted their own investigation, and came up with the same answer. And Avulstein was just as determined to rescue his brother, as she was to wipe out every last Thalmor in residence at this fort.

“I don’t know who you are,” Avulstein said for what seemed like the hundredth time, “And I don’t care. My brother’s in there. I aim to free him. Ya wanna tag along, you can.”

She leaned in close to him. She wasn’t upset that he didn’t recognize her—she was grateful for it. The last thing she needed was for the story to go around of how Lady Gerhild North-Wind had single-handedly wiped out a Thalmor encampment. She knew Avulstein had been absent from Whiterun since Thorald’s disappearance, and knowing how closely Eorlund guarded his works in progress—especially when commissioned by the Dragonborn—it was reasonable to assume he either didn’t know or hadn’t seen the armor and weapons his father had made for her. That suited her just fine, fitting in with her plan of posing as a rogue warrior, a mercenary, an adventurer who was doing this for a fee.

“I was hired to clear this place out,” she began, disguising her voice lest he recognize her through it, “You can tag along if you want.” She knew she couldn’t dissuade him; she supposed she would feel the same way if she had family or some other loved one being held inside. “But do as I say, when I say it. And stay out of my way if things get too close. Understood?”

“You as tough as you sound?” he asked, his eyes narrowing, trying to get the measure of her. Truthfully he didn’t relish the prospect of attacking a fort full of Thalmor soldiers, but if she had been hired to do it, and without help no less, then she must be fairly capable. Or completely insane. Too bad she wore that mask-like ebony helmet; he would have loved to have a look at her face just to reassure himself.

Gerhild didn’t answer, other than to pull out her bow and fit an arrow to the string. Without turning her head, she let the arrow fly. The sentry on the wall, who had just turned away, fell dead to the walkway, her arrow straight through his neck and severing both arteries.

Inspired by her showing off, the three Nord men gave a battle-cry as they jumped to their feet and ran towards the entrance to the courtyard. They were brave to charge the front gate, but foolish as that was the area with the strongest defenses. She didn’t bother wasting her breath cursing, instead focusing on the other sentries along the battlements. If she could pick off enough of them, then Avulstein and his friends would have a better chance making it inside.

She again wished she could have done this alone, as there were quite a few Shouts she would have loved to have the excuse to use. She didn't want the Dragonborn's reputation getting tied up with this messy event, however, any more than Lady Gerhild's reputation, and the three Nords made rather inconvenient witnesses. She'd have to do this without any of her Dragonborn powers.

Damn it, but this was getting complicated!

She slung her bow over her shoulders and pulled out her shield and war axe. Not because she was out of arrows; she was out of targets. Fifteen sentries had lost their lives to her new bow—a fine weapon—and now it was time for her war axe to draw its first blood. And it was very, very thirsty.

The three Nords had killed all but a few Thalmor soldiers, one of which was dressed in glass armor rather than elven. A stronger opponent, and worthy of her skill, she toyed with the idea of playing with him for awhile, but remembered that she wasn’t alone on this adventure, as she had hoped to be. So with a slight pout, she feinted to pull him out of position, backhanded her shield into his face to expose his neck, and chopped downwards once. Very unsatisfying.

“By Talos!” Vidrald or Geirlund said, she didn’t bother to remember which was which, but she thought it was Vidrald, “That was a blow. You nearly took his head off.” They had taken care of the last of the soldiers in the time it took her to take on the one. Perhaps they were better than she gave them credit.

She turned her expressionless helmet towards him. “That’s why I warned you to stay out of my way, if things get too tight. Wouldn’t want to hit one of you by accident.”

“That why you work alone?” Avulstein asked, cleaning his battleaxe on a fallen Thalmor’s tunic.

She paused and strapped her shield onto her back, thinking it’d be too close quarters inside the fort for her to make effective use of it. “I prefer it,” she answered, cleaning her own blade. Talking this way made her want to clear her throat, but she kept up the pretense. Avulstein was looking at her too closely, anyway. Time to get back to business, and give him less time to think. “Shall we?” she gestured towards the main door of the Keep.

Avulstein grinned eagerly. “Ladies first.”

She smiled back, but he of course couldn’t see it. “I’m no lady. You two, stay outside.”

“What?” one of them asked, his tone indignant.

“There’s more than one entrance,” she explained, really wishing she didn’t have to talk so much; this hurt her throat. “We’ll clear it out from inside, but if anyone comes out through either this exit or another…”

“We’ll take care of them,” the other vowed. “You just get to Thorald, and keep that obstinate old bear alive.”

Avulstein snorted at the jibe, but Gerhild gave him a serious nod; she had every intention of keeping Avulstein alive, even if she had to knock him out and tie him up and keep him out of the fight to do it. The Gray-Manes didn’t need to lose both sons.

They entered the fort, Gerhild in the lead, crouched and walking as silently as midnight. Avulstein had very little gift for sneaking, being a Nord who loved to charge into battle. After the first room, where he had knocked into her arm as she'd been about to fire her bow, and then charged at one Thalmor while another came up behind him, Gerhild decided to give up trying to take anyone by surprise and just walked through the Keep. Whoever came at her was dead. Whoever came at Avulstein was also dead. Bottom line. End of story.

They found a mess hall, three Thalmor inside taking a break and only half-dressed in their armor or robes. One had a weapon, but the other two used whatever was at hand, a bowl of soup thrown at her head, a table knife thrust towards Avulstein's chest. Needless to say, the fight again was less than satisfying.

Gerhild began to feel cheated. This wasn’t at all what she had imagined this little adventure would be. She wanted death. She wanted gore. She wanted something difficult and protracted and energy-consuming and…

She drew her ebony dagger and threw it, left-handed and unerringly, into the neck of the soldier about to run Avulstein through from behind.

Stop thinking, she told herself as she retrieved the blade, and just enjoy what you have. Later you can go looking for a dragon, if you really want to fight that badly, but finish helping Avulstein first.

They continued through the Keep, the hallways and stairs sloping ever downwards, as if the Thalmor knew what they were doing here was ugly and wrong, and tried to hide all evidence from the light of day. She felt her heart begin to race as they made their way past the barracks, killing another handful of Thalmor. They had to be getting close to the torture chamber and prison cells. Soon she would see it, a place like the one where she had been imprisoned, and she wasn't sure how she was going to react. Gods she prayed Thorald was in a cell, and not the chamber. She paused at the head of a long narrow hallway, certain that she could hear the moans of tortured souls ahead, and had to battle down her emotions and shake the imagined sounds from her ears.

Aye, she wished she could have done this alone, faced these demons alone. But then again, she knew it was better that Avulstein was with her, as it encouraged her to remain focused and to wrap up those strong memories and emotions behind their wall of ebony. After a few breaths, Avulstein creeping forwards the whole time, she felt like she was once more in control of herself and could move.

The next moment, her blood ran cold, freezing her steps again. As if summoned by her unwanted memories, a Thalmor Interrogator walked across the end of the hallway. She knew—Stuhn’s Shield!—she knew… Between the gait and the set of his shoulders, she knew it was Norilar.

He called out to another Thalmor out of sight beyond the edge of the hallway, the sound of his voice confirming his identity. Avulstein was already moving, however, his Nordic blood warmed up with their little skirmishes so far. He charged, battleaxe poised for a mighty blow, a battle-cry parting his lips.

“Get back, damn you!” Gerhild cursed and raced after him. Already it was too late to stop him, to go silently so she could get the drop on Norilar. She wanted to take that bastard alive, alive and whole so he could live a long time before she was finished with him. The last thing she wanted was for Avulstein to kill him by accident.

That wasn't what happened. Norilar turned at the sound of the battle-cry echoing down the hall, too highly trained to be frightened by a mere shout, and cast a lightning spell before Avulstein could even get close. The Nord immediately stiffened, the weight of his battleaxe pulling him off-balance, and with a clatter he fell to the ground. Gerhild didn't pause as she raced past him, negligently casting a healing spell as she leaped over his body and gained access to the room.

She rolled, ducking under the spell she knew Norilar would cast, and came to a stop in the corner between the far wall and a stout door. She spun on her heels, still squatting, and threw her dagger across the room. The ebony blade sunk hilt deep into the eye socket… of the other Thalmor. Norilar had done what he did best—or second best as he was an excellent torturer—he saved his own neck. After missing her with the spell, he didn't wait to find out who she was or what she wanted. He had yanked open the door at the opposite end of the room and raced down the hallway, past cells of prisoners, and around a corner.

The profanities that fell from her lips didn’t bear repeating. She glanced to see that Avulstein was moving, though not quite ready to gain his feet. She checked the Thalmor as she pulled her dagger from his face, but he was dead. Then she chased after Norilar.

Too much time, she murmured to herself, it's taking too long he's gonna get away I can't let him escape me not now please Stuhn let me catch up with him! She rounded the curve at the end of the hallway and smacked face first into a locked door. She barely managed to stop herself in time from Shouting it to splinters, as a Shout in these stone hallways would echo and give away her identity.  Instead she knelt and fumbled at her waist for her lock picks. It took longer, and she grumbled to herself all the while.  By the time she had picked the lock and opened the door, the room beyond was empty.

It was an office, sparsely furnished and neat, though the desk was in flames. No doubt Norilar covering his tracks, not wanting to leave behind a report or dossier to give any clue on where to find him. She snorted and left the papers to burn, thinking he’d run back to the Thalmor Embassy before he went anywhere else. The bastard.

She didn’t take too long searching the office, as she still had to get back to Avulstein and find Thorald. She did find a ladder behind a screen that led to a trap door in the ceiling, and checking it revealed it was either locked or blocked from the outside. Well, perhaps Vidrald and Geirlund caught Norilar escaping and took care of him. Not ideal, and anything but satisfying, yet the end result would be the same: Norilar’s death. The only other thing of note within the office was a chest stuffed with items confiscated from his victims. She gave it a quick perusal, but found nothing more than clothing and a few cheap daggers.

Dejected, she turned and retraced her steps back to Avulstein. He was sitting up finally, staring at the scorched area in the middle of his chest. “Thought I was a goner,” he admitted, “Struck by lightning like that.”

“You’ll live,” she growled, her anger deepening her voice. It was satisfying to see him flinch from the force of her words. “Didn’t I tell you to do what I say? To not get ahead of me?”

“I didn’t think, I mean, it was just a Thalmor, like the others…”

“He was their Head Interrogator," she retorted, gripping his forearm and hoisting him to his feet.  She knew it wasn't fair to blame him, he didn't know of her history with that particular Thalmor, but Stuhn's Shield it felt good to vent some of her frustration over Norilar slipping out of her grasp. If only Stuhn had answered her prayer and let her catch up with him...

"I take it he got away?" Avulstein asked, perhaps a little sheepishly.

Her ebony gauntlet clenched and unclenched a few times before she could answer. "Aye, he escaped through his office. Hopefully Vidrald and Geirlund caught him," her voice softened a little as she continued, "But we won't worry about that now. Come on. There are some cells this way. One might hold Thorald."

He perked up at her acceptance of his implied apology and the mention of his brother, and together they went back to the hallway with the cells. Gerhild didn't bother looking inside, as she wasn't sure what Thorald looked like and left that to Avulstein. Instead she found the levers that opened the doors and released all the prisoners. There were only three; the female Breton and male Argonian definitely weren't Thorald. The third was a male Nord, but Avulstein gave his head a small shake. Thorald was still missing, and Gerhild knew exactly where he would be found.

“Are any of you hurt?” she asked these three first, receiving negative answers. “Then go to the office there, around the end of the hallway. It’s safe,” she reassured the woman who looked like she might be argumentative. “The Thalmor are all dead or gone. There’s a chest in the office that holds clothing and weapons. Take what you need.”

“We’re… we’re free? You came here to free us?” the Nord asked.

“And my brother, Thorald,” Avulstein gripped his arm. “He’s about my height, similar hair and features. Have you seen him? Do you know where he is?”

The man looked away, as the other two began moving off slowly, all of them unwilling to speak of it. He did finally look up, however, as Avulstein refused to let go of his forearm. “We… I don’t know anyone by name… but there’s only one other place to find prisoners here…” his eyes lifted to the far end of the hallway, towards that stout door Gerhild had first crouched beside.

Aye, she had known that's where he would be: the torture chamber. Gods, she didn't want to see the inside of that type of room again... but she would, she would have even if Thorald hadn't been in there, because she wouldn't—couldn't leave anyone behind, suffering in such a place. Pushing aside her fears and memories, as they only made her weak, she approached the two men.

“Go and find yourself some clothing,” she said, gently taking Avulstein’s arm off of him. “The Keep is cleared of Thalmor, and two of our friends are outside waiting. You can leave right away, or wait for us, but I would suggest speed. Come, Avulstein, let’s get your brother.”

His eyes were lost and hurt when he first looked at her, but holding some sort of gaze with her unseen eyes, he seemed to come back to his senses. “Aye, let’s get him. You lead this time.” He added the last bit as he fingered the scorch marks on his chest plate.

Scaled armor, she thought to herself, not bothering to wonder why she hadn't noticed it before, just like Vorstag used to wear, except without the horns…

She pushed that thought aside and turned towards the other end of the hallway and the stout door, closed against intruders. She had wondered why no one came out when Avulstein cried, and now understood: if anyone was in there, they wouldn’t be able to hear a thing through the door. And if they did, what was one more cry of fear and pain in a place of dark torture? Even now, she couldn't hear anything from inside louder than some quiet murmuring, and only because her hearing was so sharp. She pressed her lips together beneath her helmet and gripped the latch carefully.

It was tempting to use the Shout to detect entities, but with Avulstein breathing down her neck, she couldn’t risk his hearing it. So she placed one gauntleted finger over where her mouth would be to signal for silence. When she got his nod, she very slowly and quietly lifted the latch and inched the door open to show the middle of the room.

Peering through the crack, she first saw an empty rack. With the door opened, however, the voice was no longer muted. It was describing, in a very mild tone, how he was going to skin a tattoo right off a person’s face. She knew that mild voice, wasn’t surprised to hear it as he was Norilar’s assistant, the same one who whipped her back and joined Norilar in raping her. She set her jaw and turned back to Avulstein.

She pointed to herself, pointed inside, and then drew her finger across her throat like she was slitting it open. She pointed to Avulstein and held her hand up like a shield, signaling him to wait. His face darkened, but he gave one terse nod. She didn’t trust him, but she did want to take the assistant alive if possible; he was almost as good as Norilar. If there were any other Thalmor in there, well, perhaps she wouldn’t be too upset if Avulstein decided to charge in after her.

She went back to the door, refusing to listen to the Thalmor’s continued description of what he had planned, and inched it open even farther until he came into view. His back was to the door as he leaned over a table, his current victim chained beneath him on the stained surface. From what she could see of the unfortunate soul, his body was well marked with the all too familiar, pink, half-healed scars. She pushed a little further until her head could fit through, and gave the room a quick scan. There was no one else, unless they were around the corner in what appeared to be a little alcove. Deciding she liked the odds, she stepped back to give herself room, and kicked the door the rest of the way open.

It banged against the far wall, making Sorcal spin with surprise. He had a small scalpel in hand, a drop of fresh blood on the blade. Gerhild was on him the next moment, her war axe at his throat, her other hand gripping the wrist with the scalpel, her momentum driving them away from the table and to the wall behind the rack.

She had seen the man on the table as she went past, but she didn’t stop to consider what she saw.

“What…?” Sorcal’s mild tone was driven from him. “What do you think you are doing?” His eyes were wide and white beneath his hood, his lips pulled back in a sneer that barely concealed his fear.

“Where’s Norilar?” There was the sound of scuffling feet off to their side, but right then her focus was tunneled down on the Thalmor behind her blade.

“He’s…” he tried to press himself into the wall as her axe pressed hard against his larynx, warning him not to even try lying. His eyes shifted to the side, and his expression momentarily grimaced. “He should be back any moment…”

“No, he’s already run away,” she ground out, her voice heated with blood and battle and fury. “Where would he go?” Still he looked like he wanted to stall, so she elaborated, “Everyone else is dead. It’s just you, and me, and my axe. If you want a quick death, tell me where Norilar would run to.”

He looked at her. He believed her. But he was Thalmor. He didn’t understand who she was or how she knew Norilar’s name, but whatever the reason couldn’t be good. In his only possible act of defiance, he grabbed her wrist and shoved his neck onto the blade.

“Fuck!” she cursed, trying to pull back but it was too late. He was even beyond a healing spell, the blade so sharp that it had cut clean through to his spine.

“Good riddance to him," a voice spat from the shadows. Gerhild turned to look in the alcove where the voice had come from. Avulstein was standing there, panting over a robed corpse, his battleaxe dripping with Thalmor blood. "He was standing here out of sight of the door, next to…" his voice choked as his eyes flickered to the back wall. "Ah, gods, we're too late!"

She looked past him to see a man, Nord by the build of him, chained to the wall and hanging limply, old blood dripped and splattered on his skin and clothing. She pushed past Avulstein and reached the prisoner, lifting his head up and seeing his eyes blink calmly, confirming her suspicions. "He's only paralyzed," she said. She stepped back as Avulstein pushed forward this time. "Get ready to catch him.”

“What are you…?” was as far as he got before he saw the answer. She swung her ebony war axe down on the corner of the lock, severing it with one blow. Immediately Thorald’s numb body swung free to hang from the other wrist, but Avulstein caught him and lifted him up, easing the strain on his already abused body.

Gerhild walked around them and released the other lock the same way.

“Thorald?” Avulstein called, shaking him to snap him out of the spell. Gerhild didn’t bother trying to tell him it wouldn’t work; instead she knelt on his other side and cast a healing spell. Immediately the bruises lightened, the cuts closed, and the aches faded into silence. Gently he tensed and began struggling to lift his head and take notice of his surroundings.

“Thorald!”

“Avulstein?” Thorald acknowledged, bewilderment painfully obvious in his voice. “Brother! It is you!” He grunted as Avulstein began helping him to his feet.

“The Ebony Warrior and I are here to rescue you,” he said, keeping one steadying arm around his shoulders.

“Ebony Warrior?” Thorald asked, still sounding lost.

“Aye,” she said calmly, standing up with them. “Are you still hurt?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I’m exhausted, and half-starved, but I’ll be fine. It’s Vorstag that needs help.”

She was already turning away, having determined that there wasn’t anything more to do for Thorald, and wanting to free the other prisoner still strapped to the table. Her axe was ready to break the first lock, her attention aimed on the closest shackle, but then the name he spoke finally registered in her thoughts. Slowly her eyes shifted to stare at the face of the man on the table.

It couldn’t be real. It was a dream, or a nightmare, or a strange delusion. Perhaps her mind had suffered damage from the skull cracking and created this horror as her penance. Maybe she had snapped upon being presented with a situation so similar to her own torture, that she had conjured this vision. Avulstein’s armor had brought him to mind earlier. And she had once mistaken Argis for him, all because of the tattoo...

Another dozen or more excuses flashed through her thoughts, each more outrageous than the last. It couldn’t be real, it simply couldn’t. Be. Real.

“Is he…” Thorald asked, his brother helping him to walk, his legs weak from the forced kneeling and poor circulation. “Are you too late? Is he finally dead?”

“Finally?" Avulstein asked, even as Gerhild forced herself to turn her attention to the locks. Though his eyes were closed, his chest was rising and falling with breath; he was alive, and there were no life-threatening injuries that she could see, just the mass of fresh scars not quite healed. She would free him first, then heal him, then…

"It would be a mercy. Arkay knows I prayed for it, for him,” Thorald answered softly, as she forced her body into motion. She reached out and grabbed his hand, lying passively on the table, to make sure it would stay out of the way while she broke the lock with her axe. She swung as Thorald continued, "But no matter what they did to him, he never broke. He never betrayed what he knew about the Dragonborn."

Gerhild nearly dropped her war axe on her way to the second lock. She didn't want to hear what he had been put through on her account, but Thorald told them anyway while she worked to free him. At least he described it in less detail than the assistant had done. She wanted to ignore him and focus on breaking the locks as quickly as possible, but her ears betrayed her, delivering every word clearly to her stumbling brain.

She was opening the last lock when Thorald told them how he had been blinded. “Norilar was pissed, couldn’t understand why he hadn’t broken yet. So Vorstag told him, said every time Norilar leaned in close, he’d see the stump where his ear had been, and it gave him courage, thinking that someone else had done that to him, even while being tortured. Norilar got even more pissed off, and had his assistant blind him. They gave him a healing potion, making sure his eyes would scar. But he never gave them the Dragonborn’s name. Never said much more than that one time, other than to curse Norilar to Oblivion.”

She nearly dropped the axe a second time. Stuhn, no, she prayed, not his eyes. Not because of her. Stuhn hadn't answered her last prayer, she didn't hold much faith he'd answer this prayer. Yet if he had allowed her to catch up with Norilar, she would have toyed with him awhile, and she wouldn't have gotten to this chamber before the assistant finished his grisly threat. She wrenched the last lock off his ankle and went back towards his head, holding his bearded face gently in her gauntleted hands, trying to ignore the shallow cut along the top edge of his tattoo.

Vorstag was in that limbo between pain and awareness, sitting in Vlindrel Hall and singing for HER, when his imagining was disrupted. The coolness of a healing spell suffused his body, easing his bruises, healing the slice along the top of his cheek. He waited, expecting it to stop, but it continued until he was fully healed this time. It was out of the ordinary, unexpected, and reflexively he opened his eyes, as if he could still see, to try to determine what was going on around him.

He heard a gasp, soft and muffled, so like one of the noises SHE would make when SHE wore HER steel plate armor. Belatedly he remembered he was sightless, the cuts healed by potion and therefore scarring. It must make a disturbing sight, he thought and closed his eyes again. He waited, still expecting those gauntleted hands to grab him, to force him from the table to the rack, to hurt and twist and break and violate. When nothing happened, when there was no more touch of pain, he wondered again why things were out of the ordinary. The last thing he remembered, before immersing himself in his vision with HER, was Sorcal threatening to skin the tattoo from his face. His fingers reached up to touch his cheek, finding the skin smooth and whole beneath an unkempt beard. Then the trembling started in earnest.

“Vorstag,” Thorald said, coming up beside them. “We’re free. My brother came to rescue us. And this Ebony Warrior. What is your name?”

She couldn’t answer right away, her mind filled with a roaring as she stared at Vorstag’s face and envisioned Norilar’s death. How many times could she kill Norilar, she wondered. She wanted to race from the chamber at that very moment and begin her hunt before he got too far ahead, but she couldn’t leave Vorstag now that she had him back again. Her whole being practically hummed with her indecision. She turned her expressionless helmet towards Thorald, without any idea of what she would say, but Avulstein answered for her. “No name. Just some mercenary hired to clear out this place. Found me and Vidrald and Geirlund outside planning our own assault, and figured we stood a better chance all together.”

“Ebony Warrior it is, then,” he proclaimed. Gerhild inclined her head, turning back to the table, unable to speak.

…Vorstag was alive…

Vorstag heard the voices around him, speaking words so unfamiliar and long-forgotten they might as well have been spoken in Dwemer. Free? Rescue? Mercenary? Someone hired a mercenary to clear this place out? To free the prisoners? It couldn’t be true, but then again, someone had removed the chains from his wrists and ankles. For the first time in... how long?... he was able to move his limbs without restraint. Testing the limits of this ‘freedom,’ he decided to sit up.

Gerhild saw him moving. Weakly he rolled onto his side, trying to push himself into a sitting position. Immediately her mind shifted into gear; however this happened, it happened, he was alive, and they were going to get out of here. She reached out to give a steadying hand to him, only to have him flinch away from her and collapse back onto the table.

“It’s alright, Vorstag. Listen to me. You recognize my voice, don’t you?”

Vorstag tilted his head, listening closely. He kept his eyes squeezed shut, knowing how disturbing they appeared, the soft brown lost beneath a curtain of milky white. He did know that voice, had heard it try to speak comfort to him, had heard it curse Norilar and Sorcal, had heard it cry out in its own pain… “Th… Thorald?”

“Aye, lad,” he sighed, relieved. He was stronger now, and moved away from his brother towards Vorstag. “Did you hear me earlier? We’re free. My brother is rescuing us. We’re free. It’s over. We can all go home.”

Vorstag continued to hesitate. Was this some sort of trick? Another of Norilar’s elaborate schemes? Give him false hope, and then crush him? He couldn’t go home; Norilar had seen to that. So he wouldn’t use that as a trap, would he? “We’re free?”

Vorstag finally got himself into a sitting position. He felt that gauntleted hand reach out for him again, cold and unfeeling, so like the ones that hit him and abused him. He swallowed, pushing away the memories. The hand had stopped, as if sensing his unease. A moment later and he heard the sound of leather creaking and armor plates clacking together softly.

Gerhild took off her gauntlet and held her hand before him. “Let me help you to your feet.” She had seen his reaction and knew it well; it was akin to what she used to feel at a man’s touch, the crawling revulsion, the expectance of pain, the inability to remember a touch that wasn’t hurtful. She could help him, would help him, just like he had helped her.

By the Nine, but she wanted to tell him who she was. She wanted to touch him and hold him and weep on his shoulder and let him shudder in her arms. But she couldn’t so long as they had an audience. She would soon, she promised herself, just as soon as they got out of there and she got rid of the Gray-Mane brothers. With that in mind, she began to coax him to stand.

“If you can keep an eye on him,” Avulstein began, “I’ll take my brother to find some clothing out of that chest you mentioned. We’ll bring back something for you, Vorstag,” he added, briefly patting his shoulder before helping his brother away. Everyone pretended not to notice his flinch.

It was hard to accept, a touch that didn’t wound, a sensation that didn’t end in pain. Yet he was sitting up, and no one was stopping him. Encouraged, and maybe a little panicky that this freedom would suddenly end, he set his feet on the ground and tried to stand, pushing himself away from the table to stagger forwards. He was too weak, however, and nearly fell on his face.

Gerhild was there, giving him her ungauntleted hand to hold, guiding him to lean against the table. “Take it slowly, Vorstag,” she said, her voice a little bit softer. Perhaps she wanted him to figure it out, who she was, and had spoken more normally than before. “Small steps. Give your body a chance to regain its strength.”

He nodded, keeping his face turned down and away from her voice. Gods, but he couldn’t stop thinking about HER. Everything was reminding him of HER. Even this Ebony Warrior—SHE was having Eorlund make her a suit of ebony armor. And the warrior’s voice just now, muffled within the helmet, sounded like HERS to his starved ears. There was the welcomed coolness of the healing spell, like SHE could cast. The delusion went so far as to make him think he could smell lavender and dragon blood, the scent that was uniquely HER. Must be all the… what, weeks? Months? Years of torture? Even though it was over, he still couldn’t stop thinking about HER, keeping HER safe within his heart. No, it couldn’t be HER—it was just his heart wishing for the impossible.

The two men returned with clothing, and Gerhild waited outside the chamber to allow them some privacy. When they came out, Vorstag was shuffling his feet to avoid stumbling, but moving a little stronger as the reality of his freedom began to take hold. She didn’t speak, but held her arm out where he would bump into it. He took it, clinging to her ashamedly, still keeping his face averted, his brown hair lanky as it fell forward past his shoulders.

The four of them walked back through the Keep, Vorstag having a strange sense that he had done this before, but in reverse and with blindness caused by a hood over his head rather than scars over his eyes. The Ebony Warrior kept a close vigil on his steps, however, making sure his way was clear of debris and always there if he happened to stumble. He held her forearm fast, afraid that if he let go, she would slip away and he’d be lost within the empty Keep with only the dead Thalmor bodies for company and never be able to find his way out…

He stumbled again, his choked sob lost within a gasp of surprise. It wasn’t fair. All through his imprisonment he had managed to cope with his deepest fears, keep them from drowning him in despair and unmanning him. Now that freedom was his or soon to be his, he began to fear its loss again. He had to get a hold of himself, he had to get back in control. He had to…

What? he thought to himself. He didn’t really have to do anything. He was dead to everyone he knew, even HER. Where could he go? Why should he even try? What was there that he could do? Travel with HER? Fight dragons? Explore tombs? What was there for him now, out there in the world, dead to his friends, and blind?

Thorald and Avulstein had gotten ahead of them, moving a little faster thanks to having sight, the promise of freedom strengthening Thorald's steps. Gerhild didn’t begrudge them, but she did wish Vorstag would hurry a little bit. If anything, he seemed to be slowing down, as if suddenly afraid of the freedom he had been so long denied. She kept herself patient, understanding only in part what he was experiencing, and having to carefully feel her way through the rest of his agony.

As he felt his way through the rest of Northwatch Keep.

“We’re there,” she said, remembering to keep her voice disguised as they neared the door, in case the Gray-Mane brothers were close by.

“Where?” he asked, again fearing the answer, keeping his face turned away.

“At the main door,” she answered, her voice stopping as his hands fell from her forearm. She watched him in shock as he reached out to the side, his fingers splayed and wavering, until he found a wall. His body followed, folding as if it would mold against the surface, a shoulder and forehead pressed to the stones. Then he just stood there, leaning on the wall and breathing, his face a strange mixture of fear and need and despair and hope.

“Warrior!” Avulstein’s voice called urgently. “Come quickly! They’ve been hurt. We need you to heal them.”

She wasn’t sure what he meant, but she recognized the dire tone in his voice. She took another look at Vorstag, but there was nothing she could do for him if he didn’t want her to. “I will come back for you,” she promised, but he acted as if he hadn’t heard her.

Leaving him to his misery, she raced outside to find what Avulstein was shouting about. He and Thorald were standing above Vidrald and Geirlund, who were sprawled on the ground, scorch marks on their armor. Norilar must have found them and shocked them as he came out of the Keep. She didn’t voice the curse over his escape—vowing there was no place on Nirn or Oblivion he could hide from her, not now, not ever!—and knelt to heal the two men as quickly as possible.

“Thank the Nine,” breathed Thorald as both men revived. “I’d never forgive myself if the two of you lost your lives because of me.”

“Neither would I,” answered Geirlund glibly. “Sorry, Ebony Warrior, but one Thalmor got past us. Nasty son of a bitch, too. Didn’t know what he hit us with, but it hurt like a mother-fucker!”

“Lightning Spell,” she answered quickly. She wanted to get back to Vorstag, to help him, to tell him who she was. She couldn’t leave him back there, so long in the dark that he was afraid of the light. But she had to play her role as mercenary. “Are you two alright?”

“Aye,” they answered in unison, and Vidrald added, “Just our pride is wounded now. Don’t suppose you have a spell to heal that, huh?”

She shook her head, gaining her feet and dusting off her hands, and the others smiled. “Did the other prisoners come through here?”

“Didn’t see anyone after that Thalmor,” Geirlund shrugged.

“They must’ve taken one look at the two of you, and decided not to stick around,” she hummed, looking for but not finding any sign of the other prisoners. Well, they weren’t any concern of hers, anyway. “Excuse me, but I left Vorstag back inside.”

“He’s alright,” Thorald said quietly. “Look.”

They all turned, and she wished they hadn’t, she wished they had left him alone, and her, to allow him to experience this by himself. It was an intensely private moment, one she barely understood and was sure the others had no clue to, as Vorstag struggled to leave the Keep.

She watched, feeling that ebony wall around her heart break and crack, as a pale and gaunt hand reached out before him, shaking and trembling like an old man, weak and timid with fear, yet moving with strength born of hope. It stretched forward like the hand of a Draugr, seeking something it couldn’t quite comprehend. She stared in fascination as it slipped from shadow into light.

It was like reanimating a corpse.

The spring sunlight fell on the pallid appendage, and the palm turned upwards, the fingers curling around as if he could cup the warmth in his hand. His face, which had been averted towards the shadows, lifted up at the tactile perception. His eyebrows rose and scrunched, as he tried to believe and trust his senses, senses that had been dulled by months of deprivation. His lips parted, voicing thoughts and emotions that were too profound for words. Even his eyes, scarred and milky, seemed to glow with new life.

And tears spilled down his cheeks and into his beard.

Aye, she wished he could have experienced this without an audience, his blindness unfairly hiding them from his awareness. She knew, Stuhn’s Shield, she knew of his deepest fears, of being imprisoned, beneath the earth, to never again know the warmth of sunlight or the feel of wind or the taste of freedom. How long had he suffered? Three months? More? How long had he lasted before he gave up hope, before he accepted the fact that he would die there, already buried within the ground, a cell for his tomb, a rack for his sarcophagus?

And now he held his freedom in his hand once more, and was struggling to find a way to cope all over again.

Vorstag felt it, the sunlight on his skin. He hadn’t felt that since he entered the Keep so long ago, a hood over his head to block out the wind and the sky. He shuffled forward, timid and purposeful, leaving the blood-soaked dankness behind him. Once he was several steps beyond the portal, he lifted his eyes upwards, imagining what he could no longer see. A breeze stroked his face, lifting the edges of his grimy hair and drying the tears on his cheeks.

Freedom…

He dropped his hand and his face, letting it go. Bitterly he wept, thinking again of all he had lost: dead to his loved ones, blind. He had his life and his freedom, but what were they worth? What could he do with them now? He would be better off dead.

The others turned away, finally feeling the shame they should have felt from the beginning, of intruding on his privacy. Gerhild was the last to look away, and only did so because the others were talking and Vorstag was—almost reluctantly—ceasing his tears and making his way towards their voices.

“What now?” Geirlund was asking.

“We can’t go home, back to our lives in Whiterun; the Thalmor will be looking for us after this,” Thorald waved his hand at all the carnage around them. “But we can go to Ulfric Stormcloak. We’ll be safe there from the Thalmor, and be helping to rid Skyrim of their poisonous presence.”

Gerhild nodded approvingly, but her focus was on Vorstag. He stopped just shy of their group, like he wanted to listen but felt he wasn’t a part of their discussion.

Avulstein grimaced, but he couldn’t deny the fact. “Aye, I fear you’re right. We’ll travel to Windhelm, then.” The other two nodded agreement.

“Ebony Warrior,” Thorald began, “We can’t take the risk of returning to Whiterun, even for a day. Could you… I have no right to impose, but could you deliver a message to our mother there? Her name is Fralia Gray-Mane. She has a stall in the market, sells silver jewelry that our father, Eorlund, makes. Tell her… tell her: ‘Suffer the winter’s cold wind, for it bears aloft next summer’s seeds.’ She’ll know what it means. Would you do that? I have nothing to pay you with…”

“Consider it done,” she agreed, hoping they wouldn’t question why a mercenary would agree to do anything without accepting payment upfront. “You should get started while there’s still daylight,” she pressed, trying to get rid of them so she and Vorstag could be alone. She had to speak with him, had to return hope to that defeated look on his face. He stood there just outside their group, like a beaten dog that still craved table scraps from its abusive master.

“What about you, Vorstag?” Thorald asked.

He lifted his face a little, but his eyes remained shut tight. “I… I don’t know. Can’t go home to Markarth. Don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“You could come with us,” Avulstein offered, “To Windhelm. No Thalmor there to worry about. And we could get a message to your family in Markarth and let them know you’re safe.”

For a moment he almost believed it could be so easy. But Ralof was in Windhelm, and if he learned Vorstag was alive, he’d tell HER; he couldn’t let that happen. “No, thank you, my family is dead. There’s a friend, but…” Vorstag shook his head, his tone full of defeat, “Just drop me off at the nearest town or city. I’ll beg for my living. It’ll be alright; no one will pay attention to a blind beggar.”

Thorald made to speak, but Gerhild lifted her hand up and shook her head. “I’ll take him,” she offered.

“You sure?”

She nodded. “I’m better suited to enter a city and not get recognized, than any of you,” she rapped her gauntleted knuckles on the outside of her helmet. There was an appreciative chuckle from Avulstein. “You better get going; I was serious about the daylight fading. And I’ll deliver your message to your mother; I promise.”

“Thank you, Ebony Warrior,” Thorald said, grasping her forearm in the Nordic fashion. “Talos be with you.” He moved on to take Vorstag’s forearm, ignoring the flinch. “I know what you suffered, my friend,” he began softly, “And for whom. If I ever meet the Dragonborn, which I might considering that she likes the Stormcloaks, I’ll be sure to let her know.”

Vorstag shook his head. “She thinks I’m dead, I’m sure of it, or she would’ve been here by now. Leave me dead to her. Dead to everyone. It’s for the best. Please.”

Thorald didn’t understand, but he nodded anyway. Then remembering Vorstag couldn’t see, he added verbally, “Aye, lad, if you say so.”

They left then, the two brothers and two friends, focused on making their way to Windhelm and the Stormcloaks. Gerhild made no move to follow them out of the courtyard, standing and watching them leave. They turned back once to wave farewell, which she returned and quietly whispered for Vorstag to lift his hand in salute. Then a bend in the road took them from view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, I know, it’s a cliffhanger, sort of… I'm taking a break from my other stories to work on this one for awhile, so the next chapter won’t take too long.  
> BTW, anyone else come across the Ebony Warrior in game? He startled me, just walking up calmly in the middle of the day (in Markarth, of course) and demanding I meet him back at his place (on the other side of Skyrim) for a duel. I kicked his ass (I was over level 80). But thought I’d give a nod and a wink to his memory, by having Gerhild borrow his name.


	21. Stumbling Through Darkness

Vorstag stumbled in the darkness.

He was anemic after his imprisonment, his muscles withered away to leave him almost as helpless as a babe. But the earlier healing spell had granted him some refreshment, and the idea of getting far away from Northwatch Keep breathed new life into his wasted limbs. With stubbornness born of his pure Nordic blood he pushed himself forward into the black, trusting his life, his freedom, to a complete stranger—not that either were worth much. He was already dead, dead to everyone who had ever known him. Besides, what life could he have now, blinded, crippled, a burden to his friends? He was even a burden to the stranger who guided him through the black.

The suspicion played in the back of his mind, that this Ebony Warrior that led him was really a Thalmor, or even Norilar, but reason told him he was only paranoid. He knew Thorald to be a fellow prisoner, and Thorald had accepted this Ebony Warrior at face value; so could he.

His hand clung with desperate reluctance to the cold, armored forearm, like he was holding on to a snake to pull himself out of quicksand. Gods, but he hated the feel of hard armor, the memories it brought back of crushing and pinching and tearing and bruising…

His feet stumbled again. The Ebony Warrior paused in her steps, lending a second gauntleted hand to steady him, before continuing into the black. She had offered to make camp for them right there in the courtyard, take the time to fix something warm and filling for him to eat, allow him to get a full night’s sleep… But he had to get away from the Keep. He didn’t care where he went, it truly didn’t matter, and she had been willing to put the Keep far behind them before they stopped. And as long as she could see well enough to travel during the night, they walked.

The fact that it was nighttime didn’t matter to him; everything was dark all the time—blacker than the blackest moonless midnight, blacker than the nights within Cidhna Mine, blacker than the bottom of the ebony mine in Raven Rock. Whether his eyes were opened or closed, nothing showed, no glimmer of shifting shade or shadow, no dim glow or distant star. His was now the eternity of the grave, only his heart and lungs had yet to catch on that he was dead.

May Arkay have mercy on him and grant him death soon.

…

Gerhild stumbled in the darkness.

Not physically—her footing remained sure and her grip strong, a necessity for Vorstag to help him keep going. Yet mentally she struggled and stumbled and groped blindly for something—anything—that could help her. This was all new territory for her; never having experienced nor imagined anything like this before, she had no idea what she should do or say or think or feel…

The past few months played out in her mind as they continued down the moonlit path, the ghosts of memories flitting through the trees. Their reunion in the Reach, fighting a dragon as a team as if they had never been apart. Nearly becoming permanently trapped in Raven Rock Mine. Their first and last night together on the Northern Maiden. Her hardship in coming to terms with his loss. The SHOCK of finding him alive…

Alive. Crippled. Defeated.

That was probably the hardest to take, Vorstag’s defeated attitude. Thorald mentioned that Vorstag had never once—not a single time!—broken down and given in to Norilar and his tortures. Yet the man faltering beside her was not the Vorstag she had loved, nor was he the Nord who had stubbornly defied his Thalmor captors. The man beside her was vanquished, his spirit at long last broken, and by something she couldn’t comprehend. She needed to speak with him, she needed to understand, but as long as they were walking she knew they wouldn’t be able to talk.

So she continued to set one foot in front of the other, to progress them down the path and away from the Keep, and waited for his body to finally demand a rest.

The night was half gone before he stumbled one too many times. She felt him fall against her, his weight slipping off her forearm and aiming for the ground. Swiftly she wound her arms around him, unable to stop his fall, but managing to slow it down to lay him gently on the ground. His breath was labored, his forehead soaked in sweat, his heart racing near to bursting within his chest. “You pushed yourself too far,” she admonished tenderly. “Rest here while I set up camp.”

“I’m not an…” his voice broke off suddenly. He was going to say he was not an invalid, but that wasn’t true. He was an invalid, his life now that of a crippled beggar, living off of other people’s pity and charity. The sooner he got used to his new lifestyle, the better. “Thank you.” The meaning behind the words was full of the bitterness he felt, but the sounds came out quietly enough to sound sincere, thanks to his exhaustion. Weakly he rolled himself out of her embrace, until he lay on his side, his legs drawn up to his chest, his forehead pressed to his knees.

Three times she opened her mouth to speak. Twice she reached out to touch him. But for the time being she left him alone, lying on the dirt path, while she set up their small campsite. By the time she had a fire going, she realized he was asleep. She wrapped her bedroll around him carefully so she wouldn’t wake him, but he was so exhausted he didn’t even stir from his slumber. She slipped an extra tunic under his head for a pillow, and set the tent up around him, providing him shelter from the wind. This high up in the mountains, the snow had yet to yield to spring, and every stray breeze tore through his transparent skin, chilling him to the bone, making him shiver in his sleep.

She used her whisper Shout, but could detect no living or dead threats around them. Secure, at least for the rest of the night, she removed her gauntlets and helmet, and enough of her hood to expose her sweating face to the cool night air. Timidly she looked at Vorstag for the first time without veil or shadow to hinder her sight.

He had changed. The physical changes were expected; he’d been imprisoned for three, almost four months. Tortured, beaten, starved, abused, his once powerfully muscular body had withered to where the ridges of his ribs showed through his skin, to where his elbows and knees stuck out like jagged rocks below a cliffside, to where his long-fingered hands and large feet seemed ungainly as if they should belong to a much larger man. His dark brown hair fell in stringy locks like it did when she first met him, back before she had convinced him of the benefits of regular bathing.

His face had changed the most. The tattoo was still there, thanks to her arriving before the Assistant had the time to carry out his grisly threat of skinning it from his cheek. His jaw was still solid and thrust out with Nordic pride beneath a straggly beard. And his brow still scrunched at the outer edges with a puppy’s transparent emotions. But his cheeks were sunken and hollow, making his features seem long and drawn. And the beautiful dark brown of his eyes was lost forever to a milky film.

Damn Norilar! May Stuhn give her strength to track him down and kill him a thousand times for this!

Inwardly she indulgently raged, venting her impotence in a silent and immobile rant.

Outwardly, she watched over him for the rest of the night.

…

Vorstag wasn’t sure when he woke. He realized with a start that he had been aware for quite some time to a soft noise coming from not far away. It was a grating noise, like two pieces of metal scraping against each other. For several panicky seconds he thought he was back in Northwatch Keep, and his exhausted mind couldn’t remember why the thought panicked him, why the thought was wrong. Unable to see, he focused instead on the familiar sound. It had something to do with armor, but it wasn’t like the armor-related sounds he was used to hearing, a gauntleted fist slamming into a passive body, glass boots stalking closer across a stone floor. This sound was an older type of familiar, something to do with his past, with the Time Before…

…with his life with HER.

Gerhild sat a quarter of the way around the fire pit, close enough to keep an eye on Vorstag but far enough to give him some privacy. She had gotten a bit of sleep during the rest of the night and the first part of the day. Now she waited for him to wake, occupying herself by cleaning her armor and weapons, checking each and every crevice for bits of gore or blood. She checked the edges of her axe and dagger too, amazed at Eorlund’s skill, the blades sharp and without nicks after the abuse she had put them through. She knew he would scold her, should he ever learn how she had misused the ebony war axe to break iron shackles. But she didn’t regret it. Vorstag was alive. She’d gladly chip and dull her blade just to keep him beside her.

“Cleaning your armor and weapons?”

His voice almost startled her, coming so unexpectedly from his still form. He had made a small noise a few moments ago, but she thought it was a bad dream. By the Nine, he’d certainly earned the right to have a few of those! She realized now that he had woken up, though his eyes remained closed, and through the noises she was making he had reasoned what she was doing. “Aye,” she said, keeping her voice deep and rough, not wanting to hit him first thing in the morning with her true identity. Gods, she needed to find a way to break it to him, and soon. “I spilled a lot of Thalmor blood yesterday, though not enough.”

A sound came from Vorstag, something like a scoff, or half a laugh. “I can agree with that.” He pushed himself into a sitting position, his eyes opened a little and staring sightless at the fire, guided by the warmth. “But just so long as Norilar is dead, I’ll be satisfied for now.”

Stuhn’s Shield, but he had to mention Norilar. She felt the bitter taste of ashes in her mouth as she admitted, “He’s the only one who got away.”

She heard him strangle the groan in his throat. She looked up and wished she hadn’t. His eyes were squeezed shut tight, but his expression was full of despair and pain and… fear.

“I’ll get him, Vorstag, I promise you. Once I see you to safety, I’ll hunt him down and skin him alive.”

He flinched, as if her heated words had struck a physical blow. Belatedly she remembered what the Assistant had been threatening to do to him when she entered the torture chamber. Before she could curse her clumsy tongue, he was asking, “What of Sorcal? He… he was the one… he was going to…” Words failed him, but his fingertips at his tattooed cheek held meaning enough.

She had never learned the other Thalmor’s name. “The Assistant Interrogator? He’s dead,” she assured him. “His throat was cut by my blade, clean through to the spine. Killed instantly.”

Vorstag sat still for several moments, his whole torso moving with his heavy breaths as he struggled for control over his fears and emotions. “Too quick a death.”

“Aye.” She had set aside her work to fill a cup with a little ale. She put a bite or two of stale bread inside to soak up the ale, and handed it to him. “Here, have a little something to eat. Get your stomach used to food again.”

He took the proffered cup, his mouth watering with the thought of something—anything—edible. The Thalmor kept him alive mostly on healing spells, giving him food and water only when necessary. His fingers dipped in and found the soppy bread, pulling some out to shovel into his mouth. He barely chewed before he swallowed, the taste too good and his body too starved. But he had heard the tone in her voice, the fervent agreement underlaid with rage and pain. “Sounds like you have a history with the Thalmor. That why you’re agreeing to do all this extra work without pay?” He swallowed the last morsel before forcing himself to sip slower at the ale that was left.

“Extra work?” she asked, wondering what he was thinking, worried that she had unwittingly made some mistake. “Oh, ah, you mean my promise to you to hunt down Norilar?”

He nodded, finishing the ale. “That, and delivering Thorald’s message to his mother, and escorting me to the nearest settlement. Most mercenaries don’t go out of their way like this.”

She took his cup, lifted in a mute appeal for more, and refilled it with ale. This time she passed it back with a chunk of Eidar cheese. “Try this, it’s soft. Sounds like you know a bit about mercenaries. You one yourself?” she tried to ask guilelessly.

Vorstag made a bitter sound. “I was,” he accepted the cup and the food, keeping his face downward. “Preferred the term, ‘freelance adventurer for hire.’ Made it sound less likely that I would switch employers, should a better offer come along.”

“Mercenaries do have an unsavory reputation,” she allowed.

Vorstag swallowed the bite he had been chewing and commented, “You still haven’t answered my question.”

Gerhild sighed before she spoke, willing him to recognize her. “Like you said, I’ve got a bit of history with the Thalmor. When I was hired to rescue Thorald Gray-Mane from Northwatch Keep, I almost refused my pay, but that would have looked too suspicious.”

“You were sent to rescue Thorald?” he asked, almost choking on another bite of the soft cheese.

“Aye, but when I stumbled across his brother already scouting the Keep, I decided they didn’t need to know why I was there. It was enough that Thorald was freed.” She grew alarmed as Vorstag’s expression changed, from one of shocked surprise, to one of bitter pain and longing.

Gods, it hurt bad enough, knowing everyone who knew him—who loved him—thought him dead. But then to hear that someone had loved Thorald, that someone wouldn’t accept Thorald’s death, that someone had sent this Ebony Warrior to free Thorald…

…and no one had looked for him, not even HER.

“Vorstag?” her hand was on his shoulder, not trying to move him or hurt him, merely letting him know of her presence. He couldn’t help the tears, morose and hot, stinging his useless eyes. He couldn’t suppress the shudders as his whole body wept. The last of the cheese crumbled in his fist as he struggled to regain control of himself.

“Talk to me,” she pleaded, forgetting to disguise her voice. “Please, Vorstag, talk to me. Tell me what is wrong. It helps, believe me, it helps.”

He shook his head, but not in refusal so much as in despair. The words to form his thoughts into coherent communication simply eluded him. Yet she waited, as patient with him as he had been with her through all her troubles. She watched as he forced the tears away and wiped his cheeks dry with the back of a hand. She took her hand from his shoulder, but only long enough to grab a small rag and wet it down. She passed it to him, letting him wipe the squished cheese from between his fingers.

Again his thoughts were full of HER, the Ebony Warrior’s voice and touch and actions so like HER, what SHE would do or say. His bitter tears tried to turn to bitter laughter, and he pressed his thin lips together until they turned white. If SHE was beside him—if SHE had rescued him from Northwatch Keep, SHE would’ve told him who SHE was by now. It was just the stress of his experience, the shock of his freedom, that was confusing his mind. The woman beside him wasn’t HER, she was just some mercenary with a history, sent to do a job. Having convinced himself, he parted his lips and took a deep breath. “Sorry,” he said softly, his face turned away as he passed the rag back, “Don’t know what came over me…”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” she remembered to roughen her voice again. She’d seen the emotions cross his features, obvious and familiar to her, and knew the pain he was experiencing. “You’ve spent the past several months in your own personal plane of Oblivion. It’s gonna take some time to readjust.”

He nodded, accepting her statement, thinking of how drastically HER experience had affected HER. He’d like to hope he’d have an easier time of it, but blinded and dead to everyone… No, this was not something to recover from, this was something to endure. “How long,” he whispered, “Was I in there?”

She was about to speak before she caught herself; there was no way the Ebony Warrior was supposed to know that. Quickly she scrambled for an answer to give him. “Don’t know. Um, today’s the 23rd of Rain’s Hand, if that helps.”

The trembling returned, but she ignored it, hoping he could handle it himself. He had to—he just had to—find a way to deal with his situation. She watched his lips move, trying several times to find the right words, and willed him to grow strong.

“The year’s still 204, isn’t it?”

“Aye.”

He nodded with a strange sort of relief. “Three—almost four months,” he swallowed. Funny, he thought to himself, it had seemed longer. Endless. Like an eternity. He needed to find something normal right then, something common and mundane and not pain-related. The next words out of his mouth were exactly that, a random everyday type of thought. “Missed my birthday.”

She nearly gave a short bark of laughter, that missing his birthday had been the first thing he thought of, but she knew he was searching for something normal. She’d been in his situation before: tortured, doomed, and then suddenly freed. After Helgen, she had Ralof to help her, to give her direction and a purpose and keep her moving, keep her living, until she could find her footing. Now she would do the same for Vorstag. “Happy belated birthday.”

He laughed at that, or the noise he made sounded like it might have been a laugh. At least he lifted his head up a little, though still turned away from her, and let the breeze fan his hair. “It’s kinda… funny…” he said, his words hesitant and timid. At first he wasn’t sure he could or should talk with this stranger, but she had made the offer to listen. And it felt good, knowing he could talk again, that it would be alright to say words—any words—without a Thalmor there waiting for him to slip up. Even the idea of talking with this Ebony Warrior was enough to lift that tight feeling of guarded anxiety from his chest.

“What is?” she prompted, her voice almost at its normal tone, when he had grown silent again. She shifted to face him, watching him closely for any sign of the trouble he was having. She was going to get him through this, going to get him to a place where she could tell him who she was and that she loved him. She was going to fix this!

“That’s not the right word.” He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “But all the time I was… imprisoned…”

Nope, she thought to herself, he couldn’t say it yet, but that will come in time. He’d only been free for a few hours.

“…I had… I guess I had a sort of purpose, ya know? I had to keep quiet. I had to keep myself from answering Norilar’s questions, to protect HER.” She heard the emphasis he put on that word, but he kept talking so she had no time to wonder about it. “That was… that was… something to do, something only I could do, a purpose to my existence: defy Norilar until he killed me. But now I’m free, and there’s nothing for me anymore. No reason for me to do… anything… go anywhere…”

He was close, too close, to that suicidal despair, the same she had felt after learning of his ‘death.’ She couldn’t let him finish that thought, couldn’t let him slip away from her again. She had to find a purpose for him, a reason to continue. “What about…” her voice broke, and she had to clear it and remember to disguise it before she could speak. “Didn’t Thorald mention something about you and the Dragonborn? Don’t you think she’d want to know where you are? And what happened to you? I would, if I were her.” Stuhn’s Shield, but she came close to saying it just then. She’d have to watch her tongue.

He was shaking his head again, the strands of his hair lanky with months of filth. “SHE thinks I’m dead. I’m sure of it, or SHE would’ve… SHE would have…” his voice faded away, as he gestured dejectedly.

“What happened?” she played dumb, hoping it would encourage him to talk. “Why are you so sure she thinks you’re dead?”

He took a deep breath, his shoulders straightening a little with the movement. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, to figure it out.” Though he was sure she wasn't a Thalmor, he remained wary of telling this stranger too much, so he adjusted the truth slightly. “I… I have met the Dragonborn before, nothing exciting, but we traveled together for a month or so quite a while back. Then last summer, I was escorting a couple of orphaned kids to their aunt in Markarth. We were attacked by a dragon, and the Dragonborn showed up out of nowhere to help me fight it. The twins must’ve seen us talking afterwards, and thought we knew each other pretty well, ya know? Anyway, they’re living with their aunt now, who works in Understone Keep, where there’s a Thalmor Justiciar in residence. He probably heard them talking about the dragon, and the Dragonborn, and my talking with HER, and thought it possible I might know who SHE really is. He would’ve passed the information on to Norilar.

“He went through a lot of trouble to make sure no one would look for me,” he continued, the tale spilling from his lips as tears spilled from her cheeks. “Especially the Dragonborn. Lured me away from Markarth with the story of a rogue sabre cat. Had me track it through the mountains to its den, where he ambushed me with a paralysis spell. Norilar had a plan to make it look like I killed the sabre cat, only to fall victim to its mate. Stripped me of my armor—don’t know if you’ve ever heard of Stalhrim Armor, but that’s what I had. Pretty rare here in Skyrim. He put my armor on a corpse roughly the same build as me. Destroyed the face so no one would notice the tattoo was missing,” he flicked his fingers towards his cheek.

“Norilar didn’t miss a single detail. I had a ring, fairly distinctive, given to me by… a friend,” he stuttered slightly. Gerhild noticed his hesitation, and wondered what he might have meant to say, but he kept talking. “Everyone knew about the ring, knew who’d given it to me, knew I’d never take it off. Couldn’t, damn thing was too small. When they stripped me of my armor, I had hoped it might be overlooked, then SOMEONE would’ve known I was still alive.”

He lifted up his left hand, not sure where she was other than somewhere to his right, but fairly sure she would be able to see he was missing a finger. “But Norilar saw the ring, told one of his men to leave it with the corpse. When it wouldn’t come off, he took the whole finger.

“That’s how I know everyone believes me dead, because if they didn’t, if SHE knew I was alive, SHE would have been here a long time ago to free me.”

He stopped, shifting his position on the cold ground, and Gerhild took the opportunity to wipe at her cheeks and blink furiously. She felt like Nirn had slipped from beneath her feet. She could see it clearly now, how they all had been fooled. And it worked. Damn Norilar! Damn him to Oblivion and damn him again! Her head twitched, as if she had caught his scent on the wind and would start that moment to track him down and…

Vorstag needed her more than she needed revenge. And Norilar wouldn’t escape her forever. He had been lower on her list of priorities, as Alduin and the dragons posed a bigger threat to all of Tamriel—all of Nirn. She didn’t want to focus on personal vendettas when there was a bigger problem to deal with, but Norilar had come up a few notches on that list, right beneath Alduin. She’d kill him, slowly, bring him to the point of death and heal him only to do it again, as he undoubtedly had done to Vorstag—Stuhn’s Shield—countless times.

Vorstag had suffered everything, because of her. He’d been captured, tortured, blinded… all because of her. And he was still protecting her, still refusing to say her name, to reveal the identity of the Dragonborn, the one person who had left him to suffer at Norilar’s hands.

The guilt was so heavy it nearly physically bowed her down. A new thought occurred to her, another reason why he would want to remain dead to everyone, and with trepidation she asked, “Do you blame her, the Dragonborn, for what happened to you? Is that why you don’t want her to know you’re alive?”

He turned towards her, his expression full of shock, though he managed to keep his eyes closed. “SHE didn’t do this to me,” he clarified, “Norilar did. And Sorcal. They blinded me. They held my eyelids open and sliced…” he stopped, took a few panting breaths to get himself back under control. The vision came to him unbidden, his last sight: Norilar’s ear on the background, Sorcal looming closer humming through his teeth, the flash of reflected torchlight off of a tiny metal blade, a sea of red washing over and drowning everything. Then black.

His hands were shaking. He wanted to sick up the little bit he’d managed to eat. He could feel her hand on his shoulder, light and tender and warm and alive.

“So why not let her know you’re alive? I would, if I were her. I’d want to know that a friend of mine wasn’t dead.”

He could hear it in her voice: pity. Pity and sympathy and charity and…

“There’s no point,” he answered softly, the defeat apparent even to his own ears. How ironic was it, he thought to himself, that imprisonment and torture couldn’t break him, but freedom had? “I used to be a sellsword. When I traveled with the Dragonborn, we fought dragons and explored tombs. Can’t do that with HER now, can I? So there’s no point in letting HER know.”

“But…” she wouldn’t let it rest. Even when she felt him glaring at her with his eyes shut tight, she had to press. “Alright, so the Dragonborn is out of the question, because you can’t travel with her like you used to. But isn’t there anyone in all of Skyrim? Some one person who would want to know the truth, no matter what? Some person who, I don’t know…” She may have meant herself, but she intended to mean Ogmund. Stuhn’s Shield, but she was making a mess of this. “Someone you care about? Someone who cares about you? Who loves you?”

Merciful Mara, again she came too close to saying it to him. Her heart was near to bursting, it was beating so rapidly. Please, Mara, let him hear me. Let him hear what I'm too afraid to say.

“There’s… there’s one…” his eyes opened slightly, as if through willpower alone he would see her before him now. “I know she loves me,” he whispered softly.

It took a couple of pounding heartbeats before she could speak. “You do?” The amazement in her voice was just as soft. Could he have known she loved him, even before she had figured it out?

“And she knows I love her.”

Her heart suddenly stopped, knowing it couldn’t be her, as she hadn’t been sure if Vorstag even liked women, much less liked her. “She does?” The incredulity in her tone was quickly covered by a cough. “Excuse me. Ah, so, what’s her name?” She tried to keep the jealousy from her voice, but damn it, who was this other woman who knows he loves her? When did they meet and fall in love? Why had she never known about it before? It couldn’t be Lydia, that thought was too preposterous. Perhaps it was that Redguard woman in Raven Rock, what was her name…?

Vorstag couldn’t answer right away. It was the one name, the one thing, he had to forget, to lock away, to keep from Norilar.

But he was no longer in Northwatch Keep, suffering under the hands of his Interrogators. He was free. His torture was over. He could think it. He could say it. He forced himself to remember HER name again.

“…Gerhild…” He whispered her name tenderly, like a prayer, like he did that last night they were together. She turned towards him, shocked, and almost answered before she realized…

…he was speaking the name of the woman he loved, not the name of the woman he thought was beside him.

Vorstag loved her. He thought she knew of his love, as he had known of her love even before she had known… Ah, gods, what a mess! Her heart broke all over again. She had no idea how the miscommunication had happened, but she supposed there was no point in trying to figure it out. It happened, it was in the past, and right then she had to focus on helping him find his future—their future.

“If the two of you love each other,” she started, overly mindful of her words, feeling like she was trying to slip through a roomful of pressure plate traps, “Ah, then, why wouldn’t you want her to know you’re alive. It must be hurting her, thinking you’re gone.”

Vorstag shook his head. “Better that, than the truth.”

“You can’t mean that.”

He lifted his head up and fully opened his sightless eyes, the milky hues bright, the tiny scars glaringly obvious in the bright light of full day. “Look at me! I’m blind! A cripple! And I can’t… I won’t impose on any of my friends, not now, not ever. And especially not… Gerhild.” He hung his head again. He hadn’t spoken her name in so long, had been so fearful of it slipping out even by accident, his lips almost couldn’t remember how to form the sounds. It had felt so familiar, though, so natural and right to speak that name again. He wanted to say it over and over, to make up for lost time, but there was no point without her there to hear him. “I won’t do it, I won’t become a burden to her. Her father was a cripple, a beggar, had been since before she was born. She had to support him all through her childhood, and it left her… it left a scar behind, ya know, an emotional one? I won’t put her through that again.”

It became a little clearer now, why Vorstag was so adamant. But he was wrong. Aye, memories of her father hurt, and she had an unreasonable fear of the same fate happening to her, but he was wrong. “That’s not your decision to make, but hers, don’t you think?”

“No, it’s mine,” he softly affirmed, the stubborn Nordic set to his jaw grew even more pronounced. “It’s more my decision, my life, than it is hers. And I won’t change my mind.”

Gerhild was stymied. Here she sat, on the verge of telling him who she was, but knowing she couldn’t. How badly would it hurt him, she wondered, if he found out now that she was the one who rescued him, who saw him like this, beaten and blinded because of her, wallowing in self-loathing and worthlessness? Damn Vorstag and his pride. No, she’d have to wait even longer, wait until he had come to terms with his loss.

Or recovered from it…?

She had gotten a good look at his eyes just now, clear in the daylight, had seen that the blindness was caused by scars. And she knew someone who could remove scars.

“What if… well… what if you weren’t blind?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he shrugged, “I am blind. Can’t change that.”

“Well, you see, there’s the thing,” she kept her voice hopeful, refusing to be dragged down with his depression. “Keep in mind, I can’t make any promises. This might work, this might not. Or the person might not be there anymore. But I think there might be a way to give you your sight back.”

Vorstag dropped his empty cup. “What did you say…?” he gasped, one hand groping for her as his mind began to grope towards the possibility.

His sightless eyes at long last showed a glimmer of hope, and she did her best to nurture it. “Well, you see, in my line of work, I’ve made some connections over the years with, well, let’s call them people of questionable social status. I don’t judge them, they don’t judge me. Anyway,” she kept chattering away, keeping him thinking, keeping him positive, “There’s this one woman, she, ah, has a particular skill set that is fairly unique. Face sculptor. There’ve been a few occasions where my face has gotten too well known, and she’s been able to change my appearance. Now, one day I needed to change my face just for a short time, like a disguise. We were talking, discussing what this temporary face would look like, and she mentioned giving me a wicked scar over one eye. I didn’t want to do it, thinking I’d lose sight in that eye permanently. She laughed, and said it was just a scar, she could remove it as easily as she could create it.

“Now, like I said, I don’t know if that only applies to scars she makes, or if it would work in your case, but it looks to me like your eyes are scarred, right?”

Briefly that last image came to mind. He pushed it aside, focusing instead on the beautiful sounds coming from her lips.

“Aye,” he breathed.

“Well, I do know she can remove scars she didn’t create. I had this long one right across my… cheek,” she quickly lied, hoping he didn’t notice her hesitation. “She removed it without leaving behind so much as a blemish.”

Vorstag nodded, remembering Gerhild’s missing Hagraven scar, and wondering if this Face Sculptor was her secret, too.

“So, she might, just might, be able to help you. That’s if we can find her. She’s been threatening to move; she’s getting too well-known where she’s at, and there are people after her. But if she’s still there…”

“Where?” he asked, the single word overflowing with eager anticipation.

“Riften.” The groan that followed her answer almost made her laugh, thinking of his last experience in that city. It wasn’t fair, her knowing and his not knowing who she was. Then again, he had wasted all that time, knowing they loved each other and not telling her. This was just payback.

And after his sight was restored—please, Stuhn, let it work—she would tell him the truth. Or he’d see it for himself. Then, no matter what the future held, they would face it together.

* * *

Crickets chirped in the eternal darkness, letting Vorstag know that it was night. Other sounds reached his ears, water lapping against wooden piers, the drone of dartwings, a distant dog barking at some imagined sport. His senses of touch and smell picked up on things as well, like the cool breeze tugging at the corners of his hood, or the heavy scent of water filling the air. No longer able to rely on his sight, he had been surprised to discover just how much of his surroundings he could discern through his other senses. Perhaps they were compensating for what he lost, or perhaps he was only now able to focus on how useful they were, but he quickly realized he wasn’t as helpless without his eyes as he had first thought.

But, by the Nine, he would prefer being able to see again.

“We at the docks?” He posed it as a question, keeping his voice soft, wary of how well sound traveled across water. The Ebony Warrior was beside and slightly in front of him. He could hear the leather straps of her armor creak as she turned her head to answer quietly over her shoulder, “Aye. Thought it’d be a good idea to use the back way in.”

Half of a smile tugged at a corner of his mouth. Early on in their travels, he realized that the Ebony Warrior rarely took off her armor, even when they camped for the night. He had asked her why, since he plainly couldn’t see her face and there were very few threats to warrant the constant readiness. She had told him there were some Holds where she may be wanted by the guards for some slight or imagined disagreements, and always keeping her helmet on helped to evade some of these time-consuming incidences. Now he lifted his head a little, the lower part of his face coming out of the shadow of his hood to show the smirk on his thin lips. “Got a bit of a reputation here, too, have you?”

It was meant as a jibe, and he was rewarded with her appreciative chuckle. “Aye, perhaps, can’t always remember which misunderstanding has been resolved, and which Hold is still interested in me.”

He hummed an agreement, but other than that made no effort to continue the conversation. Truthfully, he felt… strange was probably the best word for it, as non-descriptive as it was. The possibility of having his sight restored left him in a constant limbo of dreadful hopefulness. All the way here, as they spent the past several weeks traveling literally from one corner of Skyrim to the other, he had been able to stave off the jitters by telling himself there was no use worrying until after they reached Riften. But now they had reached Riften, now they were close to this Face Sculptor, to finding out if it was possible, to his being able to see again…

A tightness returned to his chest, akin to the feeling of Norilar’s fist clenching around his heart. He tried to push it aside, tried to imitate Gerhild and her ability to deny all her emotions, but this fearful anticipation was too strong.

He distracted himself by thinking about their trip here. The Ebony Warrior had become a sort of valet or servant to him, doing those things he could no longer do, like shave his face or cook his meals—he shuddered at her lack of cooking skills. She was also his patron, her seemingly bottomless coin purse buying all their food and occasionally lodging at a random inn. She even purchased clothing for him from some Khajiit traders, including a hooded cloak that covered his head, and fashioned a blindfold for him. She told him it wasn’t necessary, that the hood hid this features well enough, but he felt calmer, more secure, with the blindfold covering his eyes, knowing that even if he slipped up and took off the hood or lifted his face too high, that his milky eyes wouldn’t show. He didn’t know—couldn’t know—how bad it looked, but judging by her reaction, the small inhales and gasps… it had to be unsettling if it made a mercenary catch her breath.

With his disfigurement securely concealed, he began to feel more confident. Learning to use his other senses helped in this area. So did their trip, surprisingly. Though it should have been too much for him after his ordeal at the hands of the Thalmor, the hardship of fast travel actually did him some good, helping him to develop lean muscle and increase his stamina. He was far from the thickly muscled sellsword he had once been, but he was getting there. After he got his sight back, he would be able to focus on retraining his body to wearing heavy armor and handling a sword and shield, and then…

He couldn’t finish the thought, not until they found this Face Sculptor and learned whether or not she could fix his eyes. Then he’d think about… Gerhild…

Coming out of his musings, he realized that they hadn’t moved for a while. He thought the Ebony Warrior was waiting for him, but after a gentle clearing of his throat, he realized she was lost in her own thoughts. Stuhn’s Shield, but she kept reminding him of Gerhild. “We gonna enter the city, or stand out here for the rest of the night?”

He heard her shifting as she came out of her thoughts. Her voice was light and teasing as she answered, “Just enjoying the view. You cast a pleasing shadow in the moonlight.”

Vorstag’s smile faded, but he ducked his head to hide the fact. The Ebony Warrior liked to flirt with him. He had tried to convince himself she was just doing it to keep his spirits up, which admittedly had flagged often over the past several weeks. Though the overly friendly act was intended nicely, he felt uncomfortable because he knew it was false. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings, however, as she had gone out of her way to help him, so he hid his true feelings and let her think he was blushing—gods knew he used to blush often enough.

“Come on,” she said, patting his hand tucked into her elbow, “The door’s this way.”

She slipped them through a side door, down on the lower level of the docks that brought them onto the lower level of Riften’s canals. Vorstag could imagine what there was to see, having been in Riften so many years ago, and knew he wasn’t missing much. Old and rotted wood, musty and stagnant water, bits of litter and sewage bobbing on the waves, collecting under the stiles.

By the Nine, but Riften was the armpit of Skyrim.

At least they entered late at night, so the foot traffic was nonexistent on this lower level. He didn’t want to have to dodge around other pedestrians, all of them pushing against him, bumping into him, knocking the Ebony Warrior from his grasp. A little surge of panic fluttered in his chest, which he quickly stifled; there was no cause for alarm. No strange hands were touching him, only hers.

“Vorstag, you alright?”

Damn, but his anxiety must have showed. He forced himself to relax, giving her a curt nod, not trusting his voice not to crack. She accepted his lie, and they started walking again. After several blocks and several turns, she put her hand over Vorstag’s as a signal that she was about to stop. He stood still, allowing her to pull out of his grasp and take care of whatever she needed to deal with, all the while he waited patiently for her to reach back for him again. As he waited, he tried not to think about the blackly oozing water only a few feet from him, or how unnaturally quiet this city was at night, as if everyone knew this was the time for thieving. He didn’t dare take a step without her, didn’t even dare reach out for a wall, but turned his head to allow his ears to catch whatever soft sounds she or others made.

There was the squeaking protest of an old door being opened, but other than that she made no sound. Not until she returned to him, calling out his name softly so he would know it was her hand that touched his chest. His searching fingers found the crook of her elbow, and he took up his position once more.

“You ever been to the Ragged Flagon?” she asked quietly, leading him into the Ratway, the maze of tunnels under the city that housed more than the sewers.

He thought about her question, not really wanting to be honest. “Don’t think so,” he answered just as hushed.

“It’s not easy to mix it up with any other tavern, being so close to the sewers and all.”

He really didn’t want to respond, remembering the month he and Argis spent here in Riften, the drinking, the brawling, the final night when they’d sampled skooma, got wasted out of their minds, and woke up the next morning rolled by thieves and wearing nothing more than matching tattoos.

Aye, he was not going to tell her about that.

He gave a slightly embarrassed cough and mumbled something that didn’t make any sense, simply wishing she would drop it. He could hear the humor in her voice, and wondered why she thought she was teasing him. He supposed it didn’t matter, just so long as she didn’t ask again.

Vorstag bumped into her shoulder, not having gotten the usual signal from her that she was stopping. He panicked for a moment, his other hand coming up to grip tighter to her armored elbow. “What is it? Something wrong?” In the blackness of his view he imagined bandits, cutthroats, rogues, even Falmer surrounding them, heading off their escape. He knew it was foolish, but damn it, the closer he got to getting his sight back, the more anxious he became.

“No, ah, nothing’s wrong,” her voice sounded distracted, and a lot less rougher than normal. “Just took me a moment to find her. Ah, listen,” she started walking again, “Why don’t you let me go alone and negotiate, alright? She might decide to up her price, after getting a good look at you. Wouldn’t want her to take advantage of us, would we?”

“Suppose not,” he agreed, not that he really had a choice. It was her money paying for this, after all. He fully intended to pay her back, once he was able to work again, but for now she controlled the pursestrings.

“Good, good,” she took his hand from her elbow and put it on the back of a chair. “Just stay right here. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

Vorstag didn’t sit, but kept his face downward and tucked deep inside his hood. He could hear the quiet murmurs of several conversations nearby, but thankfully no one approached him. After a few minutes, he heard her returning, talking with another woman. “And I told you I have to see the extent of the damage, before I can give you an estimate. Ah, this is the man?”

“Aye,” the Ebony Warrior answered.

The other woman hummed, “Very well. Let’s go to my room; it’s a bit more private.”

He followed them passively, his nervousness increasing. From the little he heard, it sounded like this Face Sculptor would be able to heal his eyes, but like the Ebony Warrior had said, she wanted to negotiate for the best price. He struggled to keep his anxieties at bay, praying his mercenary companion had enough coin to cover it, wondering how long it would take him to pay her back…

“Have a seat,” the new woman said, and he was guided to a chair beside a table. He heard someone lighting lanterns around the room, and then a chair not too far in front of him creaked as a weight was set upon it. “Now, then, let’s have a look. If you could remove the blindfold?”

He nodded, pushing back the hood and undoing the knot, his fingers fumbling momentarily. Stuhn’s Shield, but he could barely sit still as he felt her fingers on his face, tilting his head, pulling open his eyelids.

The Face Sculptor hummed, sounding somewhat appreciative, “This was the work of a master artist.”

“Sounds like you admire the bastard’s technique,” the Ebony Warrior’s voice was rougher and angry.

“Don’t get me wrong,” the other sounded unfazed by the simmering volcano in the room, “I’m not saying he was a good man; far be it from me to judge another’s morals. I could sit here and infer that it was a high ranking Thalmor Interrogator who did this, if I was the type of person to express curiosity in my clients. I’ve learned, however, that curiosity is unhealthy—one of the reasons I’m in this cesspool of a city. No, milady, I assure you I hold no interest in why this was done. But I can fix it. For three thousand septims.”

“Two,” the Ebony Warrior affirmed. Vorstag kept quiet, feeling like he was a piece of meat being bid over.

“Twenty-five hundred,” she countered. When the mercenary didn’t answer right away, she continued, “You know I’m the only one who can do this.”

He heard an explosive breath being released beneath her helmet. “Fine. But for that price, it had better be the best work you’ve ever done…”

“Please,” the Sculptor sounded unconcerned, even bored, “All my work is my best. And you’ve never complained before, have you? Now, if you don’t mind, we’ll need some privacy.”

“You gonna start now?” he asked, licking his lips, feeling his heart begin to race.

“Yes, might as well. You’re here. I’m here.” Her voice sounded a little fainter, like she had turned her head away, “But you don’t need to be here.”

“Aye, I get the message. Vorstag,” he felt her gauntleted hand on his shoulder, “Come back to the Ragged Flagon when it’s over, alright?”

He swallowed and nodded. A moment later and he heard a door open and close.

“Now then,” the Sculptor said, setting her hands on either side of his face, “This may… sting… a little. If you need to stop, or take anything for the pain, just let me know.”

He thought about his months at Northwatch Keep, and wanted to laugh at her warning. Yet after the first ten minutes, he had to call for a short break.

After the first hour, he was sweating.

By the time she was finished, he was shaking, his breath was ragged, his hair and tunic soaked in sweat, his skin pale and clammy…

But his eyes were whole once more.

He blinked at his reflection in a polished brass mirror, until the vision blurred behind unshed tears.

“Tell you what,” the Sculptor said quietly, almost as exhausted as he was, but feeling some of her tough exterior worn down by his reaction to having his sight restored. “I outrageously overcharged the two of you. If you’d like, I could remove these other scars, maybe the tattoo, or give you a matching one on the other cheek…”

“Could you…” he hesitated, a plan coming to him on the spur of the moment. Norilar must know by now that he escaped. His description would be circulating among the Thalmor. And it wasn’t as if he had a life to go back to, so what could it hurt? “Could you change my face, just a little, so people who knew me might not recognize me…?”


	22. Wayward Steps

A lone, ebony clad warrior stalked through the Ratway beneath Riften. A few of the locals poked their heads out of their rooms just far enough to assess the situation and wisely decide they wanted nothing to do with it. Her shadow swept before her like a gale, flowing from one side of the corridor to the other, depending on the torchlight behind her. Her steps echoed heavily, harsh metal striking against hard stone as if it would spark. And her mood was as dark as her armor.

Gerhild did not appreciate being dismissed like that. She wanted to stay with Vorstag, to not let him out of her sight, not until they had that chance to talk and straighten everything out. Gods, what a mess they were in. But she was not going to let him get away, now that she knew he loved her.

And he’d known. All that time he’d known she loved him, even before she knew it, and he just sat on the knowledge and… it didn’t make sense. Men didn’t make sense. Why on Nirn wouldn’t he tell her? Why would he…

Why would he make love to her, sweet and slow and delicious, even after she confessed she didn’t know why she was there, that she didn’t want anything more than sex? How could he know she loved him if she said it was only curiosity that brought her to his bed…?

His words came to mind, those words that had confused her that night, how he understood and accepted their situation, how he was willing to take whatever she could give him, and not expect anything more. Could he have understood how hard it was for her to love?

Aye, he could—she realized—because he was Vorstag. He always accepted her, never tried to change her, sometimes even indulged her—because he loved her.

She noticed that somehow her steps had turned her around, that she was heading back towards the Face Sculptor’s room. She couldn’t wait in the Ragged Flagon. She couldn’t wait period! She was going to go back there and damn his privacy. She would stand before him and watch the milkiness leave his eyes, see the soft brown grow dark once more, hold his gaze as his vision cleared and focused on her face. And then…

Stuhn’s Shield, and then what? She wanted to be the first thing he saw, but what then? What if… what if…

What if he became angry, or upset, or hurt? After all he’d been through, how much of a shock would it be to find her staring at him, to find out it had been her who had rescued him—or rather, rescued Thorald and accidentally found him? He’d have to learn the truth sooner than later, but maybe not right after a taxing healing. She knew from experience how the Sculptor operated, and it could never be mistaken for pleasant. No, she should wait for him in the Ragged Flagon, like she said she would. Give him time to collect himself and breathe and, maybe, think.

She had been dropping hints all through their journey here, trying to plant the idea in his head that the Ebony Warrior was Gerhild. Her failures at making their supper only garnered her cooking lessons from him. Her proficiency with her war axe only earned her compliments. Her flirty remarks made him blush, but he never returned the banter. She had spoken of things, places or people the two of them would know, but never once did he voice any suspicion.

She sighed, seeing that her steps were once more aimed towards the Ragged Flagon. Aye, she’d wait there for him. Though she had said it wasn’t necessary, he had insisted that once his sight was restored, he would travel with her and work off his debt. She knew him to be a man of honor; he would come to the Ragged Flagon. And he’d see it was her. And they’d…

“You lost, lass?” a silky voice purred dangerously close to her ear.

Reflex. Pure and simple reflex. That was what happened. Gerhild spun, her armored forearm pressing the man against the rough stone wall, her other hand on his wrist. A dagger fell from his suddenly nerveless fingers, and a hoarse choke sounded from within his veiled Nightingale armor.

“…Gerhild…!”

Quickly she released him, bending down to pick up his dagger while he rubbed at his throat. “Sorry, Brynjolf, but you surprised me.”

“Aye, lass,” he paused to give a harsh cough, “Won’t make that mistake twice. Though I wish I had recognized you in that armor. What are you doing in Riften, dressed like a mercenary?”

She glanced back the way she had come. It was answer enough; Brynjolf knew whose room was back there.

“Ah, so you’re going to keep that helmet on and not join me in a drink?”

She gave a small laugh. Flirting with Brynjolf had been fun, but now that Vorstag was back in her life, it had lost some of its appeal. Alright, it had lost all of its appeal. She had to keep up the pretense, however, lest she give him a clue as to her true motives. “Oh, I suppose I could spare the time for a drink or two,” she removed her helmet and tugged back the concealing hood, “As long as you’re buying.”

“Me?” he affected an affront to hide the surprise over seeing her unaltered face. Briefly he wondered if she had just gotten it changed back, or if she had another reason for visiting the Face Sculptor. “I’m just a poor thief struggling to steal a living. You’re the one with all the gold.”

“I haven’t any gold,” she lied, walking arm-in-arm with him into the Ragged Flagon, “Gave it all to Galathil just now. Besides, you’re no struggling thief, but the rich and powerful King of Thieves.”

So, he thought to himself, she had just paid Galathil, which meant she had gotten her face changed back. He’d have to see if he could get it out of her what she had been up to. He softened the corners of his green eyes invitingly, but the effect was wasted on her. “You know Mercer cleaned us out. It’ll take years to rebuild our wealth. Vekel, give us two ales. Now, lass, you were going to tell me why you’re in Riften wearing very expensive ebony armor.”

She laughed again, taking the mug and joining him at a table. “No, I wasn’t, but you were going to try to find out, anyway. How’s Karliah?”

Brynjolf allowed the change in conversation, for now. “She’s doing well. I think she misses Gallus more now that she’s back in the Guild…”

* * *

Vorstag needed a drink.

He was bent over a bucket in the corner of a room, one hand braced against a wall, as he struggled to get his stomach back under control.

“Yes, that can happen sometimes,” the Face Sculptor said from across the room. She had remained sitting at the table, too tired to try to stand. “Especially with the more extensive cases, like yours. Try taking a few deep breaths.”

Vorstag nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He forced air deep into his lungs, expanding them until he felt he would burst, and abruptly bent over again.

It was several minutes later before he felt confident enough to step away from the corner. “So, you finished?”

She passed him a polished brass mirror, “You tell me. If you want, I could do one or two more tweaks, but you look handsome enough to me.”

His hand shook as he took the reflective surface, still amazed that she had cleared his eyes so easily. Then again, he laughed at himself, it hadn’t been easy. Though less painful, it had taken longer to restore his sight than it had been to lose it. And no less disturbing. “Didn’t care about being handsome,” he commented, leaning against the table, “Only about not being recognized as me.”

“You won’t be,” she assured him. “Oh, you may look like a brother or cousin, but no one who knew you from before would think you are the same man.” She noticed his hesitation and encouraged, “Go on. Look. I prefer my clients to be satisfied with my work before they leave.”

He dropped his gaze to the mirror. The surface was smooth, the only distortion coming from the color of the brass. He studied the face there, staring back at him with soft brown eyes. He had asked that they be left alone, deciding his eyes had been through enough the past few months. But he had asked her to remove the tattoo, a far too familiar part of his features. She had also adjusted his nose and his cheekbones and his jawline—a dozen other little tweaks and nudges, all of which made him look different. Not too different, but different enough, now that the tattoo was gone. He touched his cheek, turning his head to see that nothing of the swirling design remained. He supposed he was going to miss it, but it wasn’t like he was going to return to Markarth or to anyone who knew him.

That had been at the heart of his impulsive plan. Since the Sculptor had offered to remove his other scars, and he was dead to everyone anyway, who not change his face—just a little, just enough to be someone else, to start a new life, with a new name, and…

Stuhn’s Shield, he didn’t know what he was going to do, but at least he’d have the opportunity to do it. Norilar had escaped Northwatch Keep, and no doubt knew he was still alive and had given his description to those roving bands of Thalmor all over Skyrim. But they’d never mistake him for Vorstag of Markarth now.

“I look like my father.” He set the mirror down and looked her full in the face. “Why did you agree to do this extra work?”

She held his gaze as she answered softly, “Because I overcharged you and your friend. And I recognized the work of a Master Interrogator. I know what you must have been put through, and…” she shrugged, “You’ve suffered enough. And will suffer more if they ever get a hold of you again. But at least you’ve got a good chance of making it with a new face. Besides,” she pushed herself to her feet, “I might have a bit of history with the Thalmor, and helping a former prisoner evade capture may sound petty, but it’s very satisfying.”

He nodded, not affirming her suspicions, but not denying them either. “By the Nine, I need a drink!”

She gave a weary laugh. “You Nords are all alike. Go back to the Ragged Flagon and meet your friend. I’m exhausted.”

He gripped her arm in the Nordic fashion, “Thank you… I never learned your name.”

“Nor I, yours,” she returned the gesture, “Nor do I want to. I deal in faces, not names. Now go; I want to get to bed and catch a couple hours of sleep.”

He gave her a polite nod and left, more than glad to put her and the painful experience behind him. She had said it was going to sting a little; gods, that had been an understatement. But it was over, he had his sight back and a new face, ready for a new life, and it would start with working off his debt to the Ebony Warrior.

Just as soon as he found the Ragged Flagon. He had taken several steps down the corridor before he realized he didn’t know where he was going. He looked back the way he had come, looked the way he had been going, but he’d been blind when they came here from the underground tavern. He closed his eyes a moment, trying to listen for any sounds that might trigger a memory and tell him he was going the right way, but he had been so nervous about the procedure that he had made himself numb on the way there. Nothing seemed right.

Suppressing the curse behind his thin lips, he decided to treat it like a tomb, exploring carefully, watching out for others and treating them like Draugr, which meant he snuck past without attracting their notice because he was weaponless. It took a while, but eventually he found a door that led him out of the maze of tunnels.

Instead of the Ragged Flagon, however, he found himself on the lower level of the canals. He let out a deep breath filled with consternation, and thought about going back inside and continuing his search. But it was full morning, the sunlight bright above him and the noises of life bustling over his head. Unable to resist the urge—it couldn’t hurt to look, could it?—he made his way over to a stairway and took the steps two-at-a-time until he was on street level.

Riften wasn’t the prettiest city in Skyrim, and nothing like his beloved Markarth, but this morning it was still one of the most beautiful sights that had ever met his eyes. He came up beside a marketplace, full of bustling customers and haggling merchants in brightly colored garments. One stall held glittering jewelry, and beyond that a smith was hammering at his forge, sunlight flashing off the steel breastplate he was fashioning. Further on his eyes discovered a most welcomed sight: a tavern. Well, he thought to himself, it wasn't the Ragged Flagon, but there were some coins in his pocket, and he could step in for just a mug or two, to bolster his stamina before he returned to the Ratway.

He was pushing open the door before he finished the thought.

Inside he was surprised to find he recognized the place, and with a jolt he realized it was the same tavern where he and Argis had stayed when they spent that month here. He looked around, wondering if anyone here would recognize him. A mercenary—an Imperial mage by the looks of him—sat near the door as if waiting to pounce on the first opportunity for employment. In a corner leaning against a wall with her arms crossed, he recognized the lightweight armor of a thief. The Argonian owner came out from a back room, Keerava was her name, and gave him a cursory look before going back to work. Yet no one paid him any more attention than normal. Laughing at himself, he remembered that his face had been changed and, a little more confident, he strode up to the bar and nodded to the owner.

“What’ll it be?” Keerava asked.

“What’s your specialty?” he countered, feeling like celebrating.

“The Cliff Racer,” she responded, eyeing his simple and serviceable clothing, slightly dingy after his trip through the Ratway, “If you got the coin for it.”

Vorstag slapped several septims on the bar. “Make it a double.”

“Oh, ho!” another patron sounded from nearby as soon as the owner’s back was turned. “Sounds like a true Nord has taken residence on the stool beside me.” His speech was slightly slurred, as if he was already a few cups into the day.

“Aye,” Vorstag acknowledged, “What of it?” He gave Keerava a charming smile as she dropped off his drink, which made the skin under the scales of her cheeks redden slightly. Aye, no matter what the Face Sculptor had changed, his smile still worked if it could make an Argonian blush.

The drunk turned to look Vorstag over from head to toe, recognizing him instantly despite the changes made to his face, as he could see more than what was available in the physical realm. They’d been warned to stay away from Stuhn’s Champion, and the old Nord god still carried enough weight to back up his threat. But he never said they had to leave her lover alone; and he had sort of made that pact, exchanging his fate for hers, so really he was fair game. Ah, yes, this was going to be delightful. “Think you got what it takes to keep up with me, drink for drink?”

Vorstag finally turned to look at him, seeing a nondescript man dressed in black mage robes. “Maybe. You’re Breton, by the looks of you.”

“I am,” he slurred, holding out a hand soft from years of drinking.

Vorstag hid the grimace at the weakness of the handshake, and dangerously underestimated him. “The day a Breton can outdrink me, is the day I give up drinking.” He sipped again at the drink Keerava had set before him.

“I accept the challenge!” Sam slapped him on the back, making him spill his drink. “But not with this watered-down piss they serve here. Come,” he waved the fingers of one hand at Vorstag, the other hand dipping into the front of his robes. “Come come come. Let’s go over to that table there, and I’ll share with you some real drink. Beat me, and I’ll give you my staff.”

Vorstag didn’t care much for magic, other than Restoration Magic like healing spells. But the staff could be worth quite a bit, and would go a long ways towards paying back the Ebony Warrior for all her help. “You’re on. Name’s Vorstag.” He cursed himself, already slipping up in his new life by using his old name. Not that it mattered, he supposed, but he was going to have to think of a new name before too long. “What’s yours?”

“Sam,” the Breton slurred, uncorking the bottle as Vorstag took his seat, “Sam Guevenne.”

* * *

Gerhild had spent the rest of the night sitting and talking with Brynjolf, her back to the door. It was a very uncomfortable position for her, and one she was sure he intended, but she resisted the urge to turn her head and check every few minutes. She didn’t know how long it would take to restore Vorstag’s eyes, but damn it, it shouldn’t be taking this long.

By morning, she had positioned her helmet so that she could see the doorway reflected in the glossy shine of the ebony metal.

By noon, she had nearly had enough.

“I give in, lass,” Brynjolf was leaning on his elbows, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep and too much drink. “Who is he?”

“Who?” she hedged, more out of habit than any real thought that she could continue to evade him.

“The lad you’re waiting for. The one with Galathil. The one you keep glancing at your helmet to try to catch a glimpse of. That’s who.” His fingers pointed to about the spot where the reflection of the doorway remained empty.

Aye, she’d been found out, but she wasn’t going to tell him everything. “He’s a friend. Listen, he’s not Thieves Guild material, alright, so you haven’t met him, but he’s… he’s very important to me.” Stuhn’s Shield, but that sounded lame even to her ears.

“And you left him to get his face changed? You sure you’re gonna recognize him, when he comes in?”

She sighed, nearly forgetting her resolve to keep this matter private, “Aye. He… oh, never mind!”

Brynjolf noted the irritated way she held her arms crossed over her chest, her first mug of ale only half gone, and the impatient tapping of a foot beneath the table. “This isn’t like you, lass,” he purred. “We’re friends, you and I. Family. After what we’ve been through, thought you’d know that, know you can trust me.”

She refused to look at his green eyes, knowing they’d be full of hurt, some of it real. And he was right. The Guild was the closest thing she had to family. And if you couldn’t trust your family, whom could you trust? Damned male logic anyhow. “I didn’t bring him here to get his looks altered,” she started, leaning forwards and dropping her voice so it carried only as far as his ears. “His name is Vorstag, from Markarth. He and I… we’ve traveled together… we… oh, stop looking at me like that!”

Brynjolf laughed, a little tiredly, “So that’s why my charms no longer work on you; you’re in love.”

She narrowed her eyes but resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him. “Aye, fine, I’ll say it: I’m in love with Vorstag.” That came out a lot easier than she could have imagined. “And he’s in love with me, but… it’s complicated.”

“What’s so complicated?” he stifled a yawn. “You love him. He loves you. There’s a Temple of Mara right here in Riften, ya know. Ouch!” He rubbed the spot on his shin where she had kicked him.

“I’ll tell you why it’s complicated, if you can swallow your honeyed words for just ten minutes.”

He nodded, teasingly wrapping the fingers of one hand across his lips.

It took longer than ten minutes to tell him the story, and by the end of it, all thought of sleep was gone from his mind. He shook his head, his dark auburn hair flicking over the top of his shoulders. “Ysmir’s beard,” he breathed, “Now that’s a tale. Too bad I can’t ever tell it.” He looked up and blinked at her. “That’s not exactly accurate, is it?”

“It is,” she affirmed, misunderstanding his meaning, “You breathe a word of this to anyone…”

“No, I mean Ysmir’s beard,” he wiggled his fingers at her chin. He laughed when all the reaction he got from her was a single delicate eyebrow raised in surprise. “Come on now, lass, you didn’t think you could keep that from me, did you?”

She wanted to be angry, but truthfully she wasn’t upset that he had found out she was Dragonborn—he was the closest thing to a big brother she had ever known. And she was thankful he had kept it to himself, at least so far. “Aye, well, now you understand why this has to be kept quiet. If the Thalmor ever learned the truth…”

“Your secrets, and Vorstag’s, are safe with me. Ah, there’s Galathil now. She must be finished with him.”

“Took her long enough,” Gerhild groused with impatience. She stood up and turned, but the Face Sculptor was entering the Ragged Flagon alone. Her brow furrowed as she stared at the doorway, willing it to fill with a familiar form, but it remained disturbingly empty. Anger flashed to the surface, enough to drown out the nagging little anxiety tugging at her heart, and she pushed away from the table.

“Where is he?” she asked, boring down on the Bosmer woman.

“Who? Oh, that man you brought in? He should be here,” Galathil yawned. “He said he needed a drink.”

Gerhild’s hand tightened like a vice on her upper arm. “He’s not here, hasn’t been here all night. Now, tell me what happened with him, and give me more detail this time!”

“Lass…” Brynjolf’s purring voice and calming hand on her shoulder did nothing to soothe her.

Galathil blinked, Gerhild’s rage lending her energy to fully wake up. “Please, milady, calm yourself.”

“Everything alright here?” Dirge’s voice called from the side. Gerhild turned her cold, dead violet eyes on him, and though he didn’t back off, he didn’t finish approaching.

“Everything’s fine,” Brynjolf answered for them all, “Just a little miscommunication. We’re getting it straightened out, Dirge, thank you.”

Dirge tried to give Gerhild an intimidating stare, but the fierce lifeless ire in her features outweighed anything the bouncer could muster. He hated admitting defeat, but he knew Gerhild to be a true thief at heart, a full member of the Guild, and if she had an issue with the Face Sculptor, it was justified. Or so he told himself. “Yes, well, try to keep it down so you don’t disturb any of the other customers.”

Galathil swallowed. She had been counting on Dirge’s intimidating presence to keep Lady Gerhild in check. Now she had only Brynjolf to rely on, and his friendly manner and soft voice didn’t seem up to the task. Especially when those dark and deadly eyes turned back to her.

“I… I did as you asked…” she paused to lick her lips, “And yes, yes, I overcharged you. It was such an unusual situation, you’re asking me not to tell him who you were, and business has been slow, I needed the coin…”

“I don’t care about the coin,” Gerhild ground out, “I care about the man.”

“But… but… he came here, didn’t he? He left, after I changed his face, he said he was coming…”

“You what?!”

Galathil felt as if her arm was about to break. Her knees buckled, and she would have fallen if Brynjolf hadn’t stepped in and caught her with one arm, while trying to push Gerhild back with the other.

“ENOUGH!” Brynjolf shouted. The strength behind his voice was so unusual it snapped Gerhild out of her tunnel-vision rage. She looked at him, a little surprised. She blinked at where her gauntleted hand was bruising Galathil’s arm. Quickly she let go, as if the touch was hurting her and not the other way around. Her bow-shaped lips parted a little as she looked back up at the other woman’s face.

“I’m sorry, Galathil, if I hurt you.” She cast a healing spell, knowing full well she could cast one to heal herself, but feeling the need to do penance.

“No real harm done,” she rubbed her arm, but no mark of the bruising grip remained. “I, ah, excuse me, Lady Gerhild,” she began formally, “But I truly do not know what happened to your friend after he left my room. I healed his eyes, as you asked. He was so… grateful… to have his sight restored, I felt guilty about overcharging the two of you, so I offered to remove the other scars, or throw in a free tattoo, that sort of thing. He asked me,” she paused to stress the point, “HE asked me to change his features, just a little, so he couldn’t be easily recognized as himself. I didn’t see any reason not to, and I can recognize the mark of a Thalmor Interrogator when I see it. I figured he was an escaped prisoner, and wanted to remain undetected, so I agreed to remove his tattoo and most of his scars. Left a couple of them, one just below his eyebrow and three scratches across his chest. Then I changed his face just a little. He thanked me and left as soon as we were finished. It must’ve been about mid-morning. He said he needed a drink, and I assumed he came here, to the Ragged Flagon. Where else would he have gone?”

Gerhild nodded, but didn’t really know what to make of everything. “How… how different does he look?” she asked, fearing the worst.

“Not too much,” Galathil shrugged. “I slightly raised his cheekbones, smoothed his brow, adjusted his jawline, that sort of thing. He said he looked like his father; and he’s more handsome, I think. But he asked me not to change his eyes or his hair, or those few scars. Sentimental reasons, I think he said.”

She nodded again. “And he said he was coming here?”

Galathil racked her memories before she answered. “Not exactly. He said he needed a drink, and I advised him to come back here where his friend was waiting for him. He looked like he would come here; he didn’t argue or tell me anything different.”

Gerhild was in shock. Vorstag—gods, what did he look like now?—Vorstag was supposed to have come back here. But he hadn’t been here. Briefly she wondered if he could have come in, taken one look at her, and left before she recognized him in his new face. Yet very few people had entered the Ragged Flagon all morning, and not one of them even distantly resembled Vorstag or wore any clothing similar to his. If he didn’t come here, where could he have gone? He had insisted time and again that he would work off his debt to the Ebony Warrior. It wasn’t like Vorstag to just walk out on her, or on anyone he was obliged to. He was too honorable. So he must have come here. But he hadn’t. It was a never-ending circle that was making her head spin…

“There’s one possibility you’re overlooking,” Brynjolf’s voice broke her—thankfully—out of her musings. She blinked at him, suddenly realizing that Galathil had finally managed to slip away. Well, she had told her everything she could, and Brynjolf was continuing to talk, “He was blind when you brought him down here, remember lass? And the Ratway is a maze of tunnels to those who aren’t familiar with them. He could very well have taken a wrong turn, gotten lost, or found his way outside by mistake.”

Aye, she could easily imagine it, Vorstag hating to be trapped underground, reaching the door to the outside, seeing the sky, feeling the wind, needing a drink…

“I know where he is,” she smiled, slapping the pauldron on his shoulder. “Thank you, Brynjolf.”

He watched her stalk off towards the exit. Then with a heavy sigh he went back to the table they had shared, picked up her helmet, and jogged after her.

He caught up with her in the marketplace, feeling awkward wearing his armor in broad daylight, but moving gently through the crowds so as to keep from attracting attention. He passed over her helmet, which she took and donned with a slightly embarrassed snort. He smiled knowingly and pulled up his own hood and veil just before they entered The Bee and Barb.

And stopped dead in their tracks. The main room of the tavern was in shambles, tables upset, a few chairs broken, one barstool hanging from a mounted bear’s head, and all of it covered with streamers. An Imperial mage was sitting on the floor, nursing a darkening bruise over one eye, bits of confetti stuck in his wavy dark locks and a bemused grin on his lips. Sapphire, a fellow thief, was passed out under one of the few upright tables, a bottle of some liquor clutched securely to her chest, a puddle of spilled alcohol half-dried in her hair. Another patron—Gerhild didn’t recognize him—was slumped across an overturned chair, twitching and talking in his sleep, three empty bottles tucked around his person. Keerava and Talen-Jei seemed to be the only normal things in the tavern, both of them grumbling and going about trying to clean up the mess.

Gerhild and Brynjolf exchanged a look from beneath their eyeless helmets before she walked further into the chaos.

“Good afternoon, madam,” Gerhild began.

“Nothing good about it,” Keerava groused, “And we’re closed, in case you couldn’t tell by the mess.”

“Aye, the mess is a bit hard to miss,” Brynjolf agreed, his voice a lot more soothing and pleasing than Gerhild’s stressed mutterings. She pressed her lips together and let him take the lead. Though she didn’t think Vorstag had been involved, something momentous had happened here, and they should probably find out what. “Someone have a birthday?”

“Gods, just what I need, another Nord. If you’re going to have another drinking competition, take it elsewhere, would you?”

“Is that what happened? A drinking competition?”

Talen-Jei stepped forward, his broom held like a staff. “Like the lady said,” he threatened, “Take it somewhere else.”

“I’m just curious,” Brynjolf held up his hands in a non-menacing manner, “You’ve never had a drinking competition here before, have you?”

“No,” Keerava answered, “And we didn’t have one this morning. Two men did, a Nord and a Breton, and they didn’t even have the decency to buy the drinks from us.”

“What did they look like?” Gerhild asked, thinking of Vorstag’s ability to drink mead like a fish drinks water, and how his pride might be pricked by a Breton if he was challenged…

“Like a Nord and a Breton. I don’t know, you all look the same to me.”

“Please, madam,” Brynjolf slid in front of Gerhild, a blatant signal for her to keep her mouth shut. “If you don’t mind, could you describe the Nord to us? Was he a little taller than me? Brown hair? Brown eyes? Dressed in… ah…”

“Dressed in a pine green tunic and a brown hooded cloak,” she supplied before growing silent again.

Keerava stopped mopping long enough to look up at them. “I suppose so; sounds about right,” she shrugged, going back to her work. “He a friend of yours?”

“Perhaps,” Brynjolf allowed, and began toying with a purse of gold suggestively. “Can you tell us what happened?”

Talen-Jei set aside his broom to answer, eying the purse. “Sure. This friend of yours, if he is your friend, walks in this morning, asking for the house specialty. Keerava here made him a Cliff Racer, and this Breton mage said something about how he must be a Nord to drink like that. Next thing we know, the two of them are sitting at a table, passing a bottle back and forth, getting more drunk after every sip. Finally the Breton admitted defeat and declared a celebration in the Nord’s honor. He handed out several bottles of whatever that liquor was he brought with him, and everyone in here began drinking and celebrating, except Keerava and myself, of course.”

“So, they trashed this place after getting drunk?” he asked, feeling Gerhild right behind him practically radiating her curiosity.

“Not exactly,” Keerava answered. “The two competitors left, arm-in-arm, right after the Breton handed out the free booze. It was mostly him,” she nodded to the mage with the shiner, “Who did this. Got so drunk after half a bottle, that he cast a spell to throw streamers and confetti through the tavern. The spell backfired, as you can see. Gave himself the black eye. And left us with this mess to clean up.”

“‘m a princess wizard, not a buck fool…” the mage slurred from the floor.

“Oh, go and sleep it off, Marcurio,” Keerava grated.

“Come on,” Talen-Jei set aside his broom again to loop an arm around the mage’s shoulders and lift him to his feet, or at least to his ankles. “Let’s get you to your room.”

Marcurio blinked blearily through his one good eye at him. “Admit it; you’re lush without me.” He smiled and wobbled his head to look at Gerhild as they lumbered past. “You know, with a masher of magic at your slide, you’ll have nothin’ to whore about.”

“No doubt,” she mumbled dryly after he had passed.

“You said they left here together, the Nord and the Breton?” Brynjolf was asking Keerava. “About how long ago was that?”

She shrugged, “Two, maybe three hours ago. Just long enough for everyone to get wasted and for Marcurio to make a mess.”

Brynjolf nodded, taking the purse off his belt and passing it over. “I’m afraid our friend was involved in this; we should pay for some of the damages.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” Keerava sighed, waving the purse back, “Truthfully, it was the Breton who started it all, stupid enough to challenge a Nord to a drinking contest.”

“Still,” Gerhild stepped forward, her voice back under control, “We’d feel better, if there were no hard feelings.” She took the purse from Brynjolf and set it on the counter. “By the way, did you catch either of their names?”

Keerava’s spikes rose up slightly, suddenly turning wary. “Don’t you know your friend’s name?”

“Oh, I know his name,” she answered quickly, seeing her mistake too late. Why did she always slip up when it came to Vorstag? “But I was wondering if you caught the Breton’s name.”

Keerava gave her a hard look, before she quickly snatched up the purse and shook her head. “Can’t be sure, but it sounded like Sam-something. That’s all I know.” She turned her shoulder to them and began mopping up where Marcurio had been sitting.

“Come on,” Brynjolf tugged Gerhild’s elbow, pulling her towards the other door, “We’re done here. Thank you, madam,” he finished loud enough for Keerava to hear. She simply shrugged and kept her focus on her mopping.

Once outside, Gerhild seemed to grow lost. Vorstag was… gone. No, she couldn’t accept that. He left with the Breton, drunk off his ass, that was all. “The gates,” she said, her steps already heading in that direction. “We’ll check at every gate and see if he’s passed through. If he hasn’t, then he’s still in Riften somewhere.”

Brynjolf trotted behind her, not really hopeful. There was something fishy about this whole affair, the kind of fishy that reeked of supernatural forces. His suspicions were confirmed when they checked at the first gate.

“Excuse me,” she began, addressing the guards just outside the main gate, “But I’m looking for a couple of friends of mine. A Nord, about so tall, brown hair and eyes, wearing a green tunic and brown hooded cloak. He would have been very drunk, and walking with a Breton mage, also very drunk.”

“Aye, saw a couple of fellows that match that description,” one answered.

“How long ago was that?” Gerhild pressed eagerly.

“Oh, earlier today, just before noon. They were singing, well, the Nord was singing, very pleasantly, too. Ragnar the Red, I think it was, though I’d never heard the verse where he challenged Matilda to a drinking contest.”

She smiled beneath her helmet. Aye, that would be Vorstag, thinking of the song he improvised at her party after she became Thane of Markarth. “Where did they go?”

“Uh? Oh, down the road. Wasn’t really paying them any attention, ya know. They were leaving Riften, so they weren’t my concern anymore.”

Gerhild’s smile quickly faded, feeling irritated at the guard’s lack of helpfulness. She took half a step forward before she felt Brynjolf yank her back. “Excuse us, sir, but is there anything else you can tell us? Did either of them mention a name, or a town, anything about where they might be headed?” He hefted another coin purse. This little affair was costing him quite a bit of gold.

The guard eyed the pouch greedily, but a moment later he grimaced. “Not really, I suppose. I mean, something kinda strange did happen, but…”

“What?” Gerhild asked, leaning forward despite Brynjolf’s attempts to stay in front of her. “Please, sir, anything, no matter how insignificant, anything else you can remember would be a great help to us.”

“Well, it’s probably not worth your coin, but…” he pulled his gaze away from the pouch and addressed her, “I’m not really sure it happened, it just seemed kinda like, I don’t know, like one moment they were walking down the road, the next… poof!”

She stood still for all of three heartbeats before she asked for clarification, “Poof?”

“Aye, ya know, poof, disappeared, gone, vanished. I suppose they didn’t, not really, but it seemed like it to me. They were walking away, and the Nord was singing, then the song stopped and they were gone. I suppose I just tuned them out, and they slipped into the bushes or around the bend or something before I noticed they were gone, but to me it seemed like they just… poof!”

Gerhild turned away, unable to accept his words. Her gaze fell down the road, the late afternoon sun shining on the packed dirt. Behind her she heard Brynjolf thank the guard and pass over the pouch, but she didn’t pay him that much attention.

Vorstag… no, he wouldn’t just up and leave her. He couldn’t. Something must’ve happened. He’d been abducted by that treacherous Breton while the lazy, good-for-nothing guard had his back turned. She started down the road, her eyes scanning the dirt, looking for anything that might resemble…

“There,” she pointed, taking it for granted that Brynjolf would be following her. “His footprints.”

“How can you tell?” he asked, though he didn’t sound very hopeful.

“Vorstag has big feet, even for a Nord. He’s always stepping too loudly when we’re trying to sneak, or triggering pressure plates, or breaking worn and rotted floorboards.”

It sounded like thin reasoning to him, but she had a slightly manic tone to her voice, and he didn’t feel like confronting her just then. “So, ah, where do they lead?”

She had been following two sets of tracks, one of which she was sure belonged to Vorstag. Suddenly she stopped, standing completely still, like she hadn’t heard him. After a moment, she began casting back and forth, trying to pick up their trail. “No no no this can’t be right,” she mumbled. “No it can’t be I won’t accept this it isn’t right not now not now not after everything else no!”

“Lass…” Brynjolf set a hand on her shoulder, stopping her jerky movements and calming her mutterings.

She didn’t respond to him right away, other than to grow still. When she did finally speak again, he could hear the strength of overwhelming emotions in her voice. “He’s gone. Just like the guard said. Just… vanished. One footprint here, then the next, then nothing, like he disappeared mid-stride. No horse prints, no carriage or wagon wheel, nothing. Do you see? Nothing. He and the Breton. Nothing.” She lifted her dark and eyeless helmet to his. “What happened? Where did he go? What does this mean?”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know, lass,” he hedged, “But he’s gone. Whatever happened, whomever he left with, he’s gone. And, truthfully, you gotta admit the possibility, he won’t be coming back.”

“What do you mean?” she nearly hissed.

“Think about it,” he coaxed, trying to remain calm in the face of her ire. Damn, but she was touchy when it came to Vorstag. “He’s dead to everyone who knows him. He’s got a new face, a new life. Even considering how drunk he is now, when he sobers up later, he won’t come back to Riften; you told me how much he hates this place. Though he owes you, the Ebony Warrior, money, he has no reason to believe that you will stick around here waiting for him, after he took off like this, seemingly to avoid repaying his debt to you. And he won’t go back to you, Lady Gerhild or the Dragonborn, because he thinks you think he’s dead. And the Thalmor will still be looking for him; he probably won’t want to take any chances by going to places too crowded, even with a new face. No, he’s gone, gone for good, probably to live out his life in some quiet, remote corner of Skyrim. I’m sorry, Gerhild, but there’s no way you will ever find him now.”

He may have had ulterior motives for trying to convince Gerhild that Vorstag was gone, but he didn’t want to tell her his suspicions that he had been abducted by a Daedric Prince. After everything else they’d been through, that would be too much to believe, and too hard for him to prove. No, it would be easier for her to believe that he was gone for good, too ashamed or embarrassed to come back to the Ebony Warrior, and too noble to return to Lady Gerhild or the Dragonborn.

“Come back to the Guild with me,” he purred into her ear.

“I just got him back,” she murmured, like she hadn’t heard him.

“I could use your help on one or two matters.”

“I just got him back. I… I should’ve told him. I shouldn’t have… shouldn’t have let him out of my sight!”

“Gerhild!” he shook her, not sure what was happening, but not liking the distracted muttering.

She felt her head snap on her shoulders, wrenching a muscle or two in her neck. She winced and came out of her thoughts, surprised to see Brynjolf in front of her. But then again, knowing how he felt, she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. He would try to convince her that Vorstag was gone for good, disappeared untraceably to live out his life in some backwater plot of land where he’d never be found, by Thalmor or the Dragonborn. Aye, that would suit Brynjolf just fine, wouldn’t it, she thought to herself. Well, he overplayed his hand, was too obvious in his tactics. Never mind that he was right…

“I’ve got to try, Bryn,” she said softly, her tone full of dangerous undertones. “I love Vorstag. I won’t accept his loss. Not again. I’ll do whatever it takes to find him. And nothing,” she stepped far too close into his personal space, “And no one, is going to stand in my way.”

She turned on her heel, dismissing him from her mind as she studied the markings on the road. Brynjolf swallowed, told himself he was lucky to come out of that with his head still attached to his shoulders. He realized he had tried too hard to convince Gerhild that Vorstag was gone for good. She’d never give up on him now.

And he’d never have a chance with her.

Without another word, he left her to her fruitless searching, and returned to his Guild.

* * *

Vorstag woke to a loud clatter, and a pounding headache. He felt the world spinning, and opened his eyes to confirm it. “By the Nine!” he hissed, squeezing his eyes shut against the glaring light and the piercing noise.

“Thank Dibella, it lives,” a sarcastic female voice droned, drilling into his head and intensifying the headache tenfold.

“Peace, woman,” he moaned, “Give me a few moments of mercy.”

“I’ve no mercy for you, blasphemer. Wake up!”

“Huh?” he asked, pushing his eyes open again, only to find a woman in priestess robes, hands on her hips, glaring down at him.

“Wake up!” she repeated, leaning back when he looked like he was obeying. “That’s right, it’s time to wake up, you drunken blasphemer!”

Vorstag rolled face down on the floor and barely managed to make it to his hands and knees. He lifted his head and blinked, trying to get his surroundings into focus. He was kneeling next to a low bench, which he had apparently just fallen off of and woken himself up. He looked a little further and saw a rather disturbing sight: slaughter fish scales were scattered over the floor like rose petals, juniper branches were sticking out of several odd nooks and crannies, and a mammoth tusk was leaning obscenely against a statue of Dibella. “What happened?”

“I should be asking you that!” the priestess hissed. “You came in here last night, drunk out of your mind, defiled our temple…”

“Temple?” he interrupted.

“Yes, the Temple of Dibella? In Markarth? Gods, were you so drunk you didn’t even know where you were?”

“Markarth?” he repeated, an awful little knot of tightness in his chest, like he could feel Norilar’s fist around his heart again. “Fuck! I can’t be here!”

“Well, you are here, have been all last night and sleeping it off all day,” the priestess argued, gesturing as she continued, “Fondling the statues, shouting about being in love with the Dragonborn, defecating the temple…”

“Don’t you mean…” he started, but stopped when the smell reached him. No, she meant exactly what she said. That brought to his attention an astonishing, and rather embarrassing realization. “Ah, where are my pants?”

“Your pants?” she screeched. “You have the nerve to ask about your pants, after what you’ve done to this place? I was going to show you some mercy, and let you go after you cleaned up the mess you made. But now I’m beginning to think I should just call for the guard!”

“Fuck…” he mumbled, his eyes wide. That’s the last thing he needed, in Markarth again, without pants, arrested by the guard and thrown into Cidhna Mine…

Vorstag didn’t think. He ran. He raced out of the Temple of Dibella and into the night, ignoring the priestess’ angry screams. He dodged around a guard, refusing to stop when he called after him. He jumped down onto a lower walkway, rolled when he landed so he wouldn’t break anything, and kept running. Up a side street. Down a flight of stairs. Around a corner.

Markarth. The city of his birth. His home. The one place he could never return to.

“Fuck!” he panted, finally coming to a stop. He hid in the corner next to a door, tucked behind a large storage barrel. He waited, listening to the night, but if the guards were after him, they hadn’t made it that far yet. He relaxed a little, just enough to catch his breath, and tried to figure out what the FUCK just happened.

He’d been in Riften, with the Ebony Warrior. Gotten his eyes fixed. His face changed. Ah, then he got lost, trying to make it back to the Ragged Flagon and ended up outside. He went to the Bee and Barb, ordered a drink, and that Breton challenged him to a contest…

…and he woke up here in Markarth.

“Stuhn’s Shield,” he muttered, “What were we drinking?”

“Who’s there?” a feeble old voice called out. Vorstag cursed himself for talking out loud, and tried to shrink down behind the barrel. A man came into view, his hair white with age, and Vorstag felt relief flood through him.

“Ogmund!” He stood up behind the barrel, before remembering he wasn’t wearing any pants.

Or that he didn’t look like Vorstag anymore.

“Who are you?” Ogmund repeated. “How do you know my name? Answer me, boy, before I call the guard.”

“No, no, no,” he reached out a hand, giving his most charming smile, “Don’t call the guard. I… I don’t mean you any harm.”

Ogmund looked him up and down as he came around from behind the barrel. “Obviously. You drunk, lad, or just lost?”

“I… I was mugged,” he lied quickly, “All my coin was taken.”

“More than that,” he nodded to the lower hem of his tunic, which didn’t quite hide his loincloth.

“Aye, well, it’s been a rough couple of weeks,” he rubbed at the back of his neck. “Listen, I…” gods, but he missed his oldest friend. If only he could tell him the truth. But he had to pretend to be a stranger, both to him and to Markarth. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call the guards. Just point me to the nearest city gate, and forget you ever saw me.” He tried to ignore the lump choking his throat.

Ogmund stared hard at him a moment longer, before nudging his bearded chin towards the main gate.

“Thank you.” He ducked his head and made to slip past him, but the old skald’s hand on his chest stopped him.

“You can’t go around like that, boy, with your intimates hanging out, or the guard will arrest you before you can get out of the city. Stay here a moment; I’ve got an old pair of leggings you can have.”

That lump was getting large enough, he should look like he had the mumps. “Again, thank you, friend.” Ogmund merely nodded and headed inside his home. Vorstag waited outside, wanting to leave before Ogmund recognized him, wanting to stay until he did, knowing he should probably start running now. It wasn’t too long, however, before Ogmund returned with the promised leggings, and an old pair of shoes. “Divines smile on you.”

“Don’t mention it, boy,” Ogmund answered in a voice gruff from years of singing for a living. “You remind me of someone I used to know. Helping you, well, it would seem like I was helping him, ya know?”

Words failed him. Vorstag finished shoving his feet into the shoes, and straightening up he held his forearm out in the Nordic fashion. Ogmund took it, held it a little too long as he studied Vorstag’s face. “Aye, you look like someone I knew a long time ago. Him, or his son.”

It took Vorstag three tries before he could answer. “Best if you forget me, friend. Talos be with you.” He turned and left then, as quickly as the ill-fitting leggings and winding streets of Markarth would allow. He didn’t look back, not once, as he reached the main gate and slipped outside, leaving the city of his birth behind.

However he got to Markarth, there was no doubt in his mind it would’ve taken quite a bit of time, and even more time to return to Riften. The Ebony Warrior would be long gone, thinking him a deadbeat. The thought rankled with him, but there was nothing he could do about it now. And it wasn’t like he had a reputation to maintain, not any more, not since he was ‘dead.’

And as for that Breton, well, Vorstag had learned his lesson. He’d never again take up a drinking challenge with a man who supplied the drinks himself. Nothing but good Nordic mead for him from now on.

The night was cool, as all nights are in Skyrim, regardless of the time of year. Vorstag hunched his shoulders against the chill, and started down the road. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he would get as far as he could get, and then see what there was to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you see that twist coming? Did you? *giggles* I have to admit, I’m starting to run out of steam when it comes to keeping these two apart, but I’ve still got a few more twists up my sleeve to write…  
> Also, my apologies to those of you who like him, but I had to get in a little Marcurio bashing (by the Nine, he was such a prick to my character in game!)  
> And thank you, all of you, for all the Kudos and Comments *blows kisses*


	23. A New Plan

3rd Mid Year: 4E 204

Vorstag was gone. Gerhild had searched for him, asked at every inn and tavern and settlement within the Rift, but there was no sign of him or the Breton mage. She had spent a month looking, but eventually she had to admit defeat; wherever he went, however he got there, it involved forces beyond her comprehension. Even using a dragon to fly over the mountains and valleys, to scour the countryside, gave her no indication of his location.

Vorstag was gone. As surely and as fatally as death. And he would never come back to her.

The pain had brought her to her knees. She knew regret, knew she should have told him right away who she was, knew she should have never left him in Windhelm, knew she should have realized sooner—a lot sooner—that she loved him. Hindsight was a cold-hearted bitch. It tore mercilessly through her heart, rending it into tattered bits and squishing the larger globs beneath her heel.

Vorstag was gone.

Gerhild had picked herself up this morning, knowing she had to keep going, that her fate had yet to be completed, that there were other people relying on her to do a job. Aye, life and fate were tricky bastards, giving her a small taste of something she knew she couldn’t have anyway. She’d have to set all that aside now. She’d have to be strong, stronger than ever before, and face her fate squarely. Beyond that—her life after confronting Alduin—nothing mattered.

With that in mind, she had mounted her tamed dragon, ridden it practically to Windhelm’s main gate, and killed it right in front of the astonished guards.

“L… La… Lady Gerhild…” one of the guards bowed to her, eyeing the skeletal remains warily. “Wel… Welcome home. The Jarl will be pleased to see you.”

She didn’t answer, stalking in her featureless ebony armor towards the gate, barely pausing as another guard wrenched it open for her. She noted that someone raced ahead, no doubt attempting to reach the palace before her and warn them of her arrival. Though she thought riding a dragon up to his doorstep should have been enough of a warning for Ulfric…

“Gerhild!” a familiar voice called out to her as soon as she entered the palace courtyard. She was not at all surprised to be recognized, even covered head-to-toe in new armor; she had used the dragon so as to leave no doubt regarding her identity. Turning she saw a gentle face plastered with a large smile and framed with blond hair, and immediately recognized the Nord.

“Ralof!” she embraced him as well as her hard armor would allow, her voice full of warmth and fondness, her helmet more than adequate to hide her dead violet eyes.

“By Talos,” he breathed, “Of all the days for you to come home. And on a dragon? Truly, you rode a dragon here, to the very gates, and then slew it?”

Her laughter was slightly embarrassed, though hollow-sounding within her helm. “Aye, well, it was handy, and I wanted to make good time getting here; but it was a dragon—couldn't very well just let it go. Now, what do you mean by my coming home today, of all days? Has something happened?”

“Aye,” Ralof practically beamed. “Wait ’til you hear… But I should let the Jarl tell you.”

“Tell me what?” she slugged him, affecting playfulness as they walked inside. “Come on, Ralof, what’s going on? I’ll keep the secret. I’ll act surprised when…” her voice faded away as she got a good look around them. The main hall was full of people dressed in their finest clothes. Streamers and garlands of flowers were decorating each pillar. All the candles and chandeliers and torches were lit. And the table was set with a feast that must have taken days to cook. “Stuhn’s Shield, but… what…?”

Ulfric sat at the head of the table, a guard leaning over and whispering in his ear. He looked up as they entered, nodded as the guard finished, and dismissed him with a flick of his fingers. Then he took his goblet, stood up to attract everyone’s attention, and raised it towards Gerhild. “All hail the Dragonborn!”

She stopped walking. Surely they couldn’t have known she was coming today, and had this feast prepared for her. No, something else was going on, something else she had arrived in the middle of, and she began to have her suspicions when she saw the seat to Ulfric’s right was conspicuously empty.

Every face was turned towards her, glasses raised, voices cheering and hailing her. Obviously everyone was already well along in this celebration, and she lifted a hand in acknowledgement before making her way towards the head of the table.

She knelt before him, conscious of the stares and the scrutiny, and paid him more homage than she normally would have done. “Hail, my liege, Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Eastmarch, and if I’m not mistaken,” she stood up and took off her helmet and hood, a smile playing across her lips, “New father?”

Galmar roared with laughter. “Ulfric, you should see the look on your face. Aye, lass, Nilsine gave birth just a few hours ago. Baby girl. Prettiest little thing you ever saw.”

Gerhild laughed warmly, though her eyes remained cool and dark. “I doubt that, Galmar. All babies are messy and noisy and anything but pretty when they’re first born.” She turned back to Ulfric, and saw his smile was just as fake as hers. “But to a first-time father, she must be the most beautiful angel you’ve ever seen. Congratulations, Ulfric.”

They embraced. It was chaste, and more than a little awkward with her still wearing ebony armor and one hand holding her helmet. She ended it with a kiss to his cheek. Then she accepted the goblet Galmar passed her, raised it high over her head, and proclaimed, “To the Heir of Eastmarch!”

There was an appropriately enthusiastic response to her toast, and at least a dozen servants scurrying around afterwards, refilling goblets so the guests could continue to cheer. Gerhild maintained her smile, though her ears were burning with the words Ulfric had whispered to her while they had embraced.

_“I need you. Tonight.”_

“The guard said you rode a dragon here?” Galmar started even before she could be shown to a seat. Jorleif stood and gave her his place, at Ulfric’s left hand, Nilsine’s seat remaining empty out of respect.

“Aye, well, as I was telling Ralof,” she nodded to him as she passed him her pack and weapons, “It was handy, and I thought, why not fly? It would be faster than walking.”

Galmar laughed again. “Gods, but you are Ulgaarth’s daughter. Think of it, Ulfric: the Dragonborn arrives on the back of a dragon, on the very day of your daughter’s birth. An auspicious sign, don’t you think?”

“Aye,” his deep voice rumbled good-naturedly, “Though you didn’t have to land it on my front porch. The guard said the remains block most of the bridge.”

Gerhild finished removing her gauntlets and passed them along with her helmet to Ralof. She shrugged in an unconcerned manner as Galmar handed her a plateful of food. “Oh, fine, I’ll clean up my mess later. After the feast. And after I’ve had a chance to congratulate the new mother and see the babe. Now, tell me, what does she look like? How big is she? How much does she weigh?”

“Oh, ah, tiny, pink, kinda wrinkly, ya know…” Galmar stuttered, making a face.

Jorleif laughed, standing nearby with the other guests who couldn’t fit around the table. It looked like all of Windhelm was in the main hall. All the Nords of Windhelm, anyway. “She’s about eight pounds,” he answered, “And a good foot-and-a-half long. Got a tuft of hair the color of her pa.”

Gerhild had her head tilted to hear Jorleif over the noise of the guests, her face pointed towards Ulfric, and she saw the dark look that passed over his eyes at the mention of the baby’s hair. Stuhn’s Shield, but what had she just walked into the middle of? Well, she’d find out soon enough, but after she ate. And after she talked with Nilsine. Then, aye, she’d go to Ulfric, meet him in his chambers. And whatever he wanted, whatever he needed her for, she’d take care of that, too.

After all, he was the reason she had come to Windhelm.

* * *

It was nearly midnight, and though Gerhild was tired, her day wasn’t over yet. She had celebrated the birth of Ulfric’s heir, _Fus Ro Dah_ ’d the dragon’s remains off the bridge and into the water, visited Nilsine and her daughter—named Friga in memory of Nilsine’s late sister. She had even managed to find time to remove her armor and bathe. She now wore a deep blue dress with matching slippers, her hair flowing freely down her back, as she made her way up the corridor to Ulfric’s bedchamber.

By the Nine, she thought, but this is ridiculous. The very eve after his daughter’s birth, and she’s going to his chambers. She didn’t think Nilsine would catch her, being exhausted after her ordeal and completely occupied with her infant daughter. Galmar wouldn’t either, as he and Jorleif were still below celebrating, and probably would through tomorrow. The guards, on the other hand, were patrolling heavily—a precaution instigated after the attempt on Nilsine’s life so many months ago. However, they wisely kept their mouths shut and their eyes blind when she walked past, unwilling to betray either their Jarl, or their Dragonborn. Aye, tonight would be the worst kept secret this palace had ever witnessed.

And so completely misunderstood.

All through the feast she had felt Ulfric’s eyes on her, studying her face, reading her minuscule tells. If by sheer willpower he could have forced his thoughts into her head, he would have done so. But it was unnecessary. She had told him so with every small gesture she could slip past Galmar’s faithful vigilance.

He said he needed her.

She would be there for him, only not the way he wanted.

Her hand knocked softly on the door, not because she didn’t want him to hear, but because she didn’t need to be any louder. He answered almost immediately, confirming her suspicions that he had been listening and waiting for her. She opened the door and slipped inside, as quiet as a ghost.

Ulfric stood by the fireplace, one hand leaning on the mantle, wearing little more than leggings and his Amulet of Talos. Aye, he had been confident that tonight she would come, she and no one else, as he never risked showing his scarred body to any but her—not Galmar, not even his own wife. Brief irritation flitted through the womanly part of her mind, noting how he so obviously wanted what she would not give, but truthfully it didn’t matter. She closed the door with a soft thump.

“Gerhild, I…” he sputtered, only now noticing that she was fully dressed. His brow narrowed dangerously; hadn’t he made his need clear to her? Had he left any doubt as to what he intended for them tonight? Looking up at her face as she came closer to him, he could see the reason for her refusal; it had returned, the cold deadness inside. So, the rumors he’d heard were true; she and Vorstag had been lovers. That was the only explanation as to why his death would affect her so deeply.

He turned away before she could clearly see his features, thankful that he had been standing in front of the fire, which backlit his face and kept his expressions obscure. He erased his irritation and put on an appropriately solemn and concerned look. “I wanted you to know,” he began softer, almost sounding embarrassed, “I… we heard… about Vorstag. I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry. I know the two of you were close.” He dared to return his gaze to her, confident he had her fooled.

No, you’re not sorry, she thought to herself. Nothing had slipped past her sharp eyes, even if the state of his near undress didn’t belie his words. Outwardly, she stood next to him beside the fire and dropped her gaze. “Thank you.”

He reached out, acting hesitant and afraid but truthfully feeling nothing of the sort, and put his arm across her shoulders. He could still have her tonight, if he was careful, if he offered sex as a balm to soothe her broken heart. Aye, that might work, but he’d have to go slowly and carefully. He started with his thumb making small, comforting circles on her shoulder.

They didn’t speak. After a few moments, his other hand lifted to cup her chin, bringing her eyes up to his. But he didn’t kiss her. He pulled her closer to his chest, his skin warmed by the fire, and held her lightly, as if he thought she would start crying. Gently he swayed, rocking her in what he considered a comforting manner. He pressed his lips to her hair and inhaled the light scent of lavender.

“By Talos,” he sighed, “I swear: I never wanted to see you hurt,” he breathed, his hands continuing to make their small circles, rubbing her skin, warming her through the fabric of her gown. “Had I known how much you cared about him…”

“I loved him,” she broke over his words, her tone as cool as her lack of emotion. “I loved Vorstag. He loved me. But he’s gone, now; I’ll never see him again.”

“Hush,” he sighed, cradling her, “Don’t say that. You’ll see him again, in Sovngarde, gods willing.” One hand began caressing her spine, smoothening her hair, in long and steady strokes. “Until then, aye, you’ll be alone. You’ll hurt. I know, Gerhild,” he pressed his lips to her hair, “I know how hard it is for you,” his lips descended to the tip of one ear, “To let yourself feel,” he kissed her brow, “Such pain,” he kissed her cheek, “So strong that it drowns you and leaves you helpless,” he kissed her lips. “Give me your pain. We can share it. Together, we can ease each other’s pain.”

She leaned away from him only to find herself trapped within his gentle embrace. She could force her way out of his arms, but it wouldn’t serve any purpose other than to anger him, which would be detrimental regardless of his or her plans. Instead she lifted a cool hand to his stubbled cheek, the side of her thumb against the groomed hairs of his goatee. “Pain? You know of my pain, but I do not know of yours?”

He tilted his head into her touch. “Ah, gods…” he moaned, feeling his anger and righteous wrath flash momentarily into life, before he schooled his features once more to answer her. “I… I’ve been… Oh, Gerhild, I know you don’t love me. I can accept that—I’m not the easiest man to love. But… say you care about me, even a little.”

“I do,” she admitted. “I care for you; you’re the closest thing I have to a family relation…”

He gave a short bark of laughter, full of bitterness and self-reproach. “You make me sound like a favorite uncle.” He pressed his lips together tightly for a moment before he could speak again, and when he looked at her his eyes were full of hungry desire. “I don’t need a niece tonight. I don’t need the daughter of my close friends. I need a woman. I need… I need you, Gerhild, to give me an heir.”

She lifted one delicate golden eyebrow, thinking she couldn’t have heard right. “You have an heir…”

She stopped, watching him shake his head, feeling his fingers bruise her flesh. “That… girl…!” He suddenly realized he had been gripping her shoulders a little too tight. He let go, full of anguish, and turned away from her to grip the mantle instead. She watched his fingernails turn white with the force of his rage.

“You wanted a son,” she said, thinking she knew what the problem was, “But instead you have a daughter. Ulfric,” she touched his shoulder lightly, a little concerned with the force of his emotions vibrating through his limbs, “There’s nothing wrong with your heir being a girl instead of a boy.”

“You don't understand… it’s not that…” he choked, allowing a little of his true feelings to show. He squeezed his eyes shut again, facing away from her, acting like the secret, the painful secret he was about to share, was tearing him up inside. The fact that it was causing him distress only added to his guise. When he answered, his voice was overflowing with every one of his pains. “Friga is not my child.”

Aye, he had surprised her; he could tell without looking. She was silent for several seconds, as she lost herself within her deep thoughts and considered which option to take. He waited patiently, allowing her to make the next move and taking the time to prepare his arguments.

“You have proof.”

He wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement, but he answered anyway. “You’ve seen the babe? You’ve seen her hair? Nilsine has dark hair; the babe is blonde.”

“Much like yours,” she said gently, but he was already shaking his head.

“It’s lighter, much too light to be mine.” The firelight danced in the reflection in his eyes, making the fire look to be alive within him.

Gerhild couldn’t believe her ears. She had seen the babe, and noted the blondness of her hair, but truthfully she didn’t feel it was too light. There had to be something more to this than hair color. “What else?” When he only shook his head in answer, she moved even closer to him. “Ulfric, please, talk with me. Tell me what happened. Help me understand why you think Friga is not your daughter.”

Good, he thought to himself, she’s coming to me, offering me comfort. Now to make her want to offer me more. “Nilsine… she… she came to me one night… to make a proposition…” his fingernails turned white again as he clutched at the mantle. “There’s no love between us; we’ve both known that from the beginning. She said she would fulfill her obligations as my wife—that she’d give me an heir—but afterwards she wanted to be free to take a lover. I saw no harm in it, as long as she was discreet, so I agreed. Ever since then… the way she looks at… I know she has already picked her lover… and they have already…”

“Who?”

“You know.” The words were dragged out of his mouth and left to settle onto the floor between them.

Gerhild took a deep breath. “Aye, I suppose I saw the signs, during my last visit, when the attempt was made on her life.”

“When you discovered she was with child.” He turned to fully face her at last, wanting her to feel guilt, to feel the need to make things up to him. “You knew then.”

“I didn’t know,” she corrected, “I suspected. There was no proof, and there still isn’t, from what I’ve heard so far. She was eyeing him, that is true, but he gave no indication that he had done anything he had to feel guilty over. And cuckolding his Jarl would definitely be out of line.”

“Proof or not,” he growled, his voice dangerous and low, “They did it. Friga is not my daughter, but the daughter of Nilsine’s escort, Yrsarald!” He nearly tore the mantle from the wall as he tore his fingers from the stone. He paced away, like a caged animal in the grips of an hysterical rage, stalking without a prey to hunt, aiming without a target to strike. “The timing is just too perfect. After months of trying—months!—to no avail, she comes and asks about taking a lover. Then she begins to grow heavy with child. Am I really supposed to believe it’s mine?

“Gods! I should kill them, all three of them, for their treachery!” His words rang with the sound of a headsman’s axe. “But that would reveal my shame, wouldn’t it? If I call them out for their crime of adultery, that would let everyone know I was cuckolded. My pride won’t allow it.

“But neither will it silently suffer their sin.” He turned back to her, his eyes hard, his lips drawn back like a wolf’s. “I want an heir. A male heir. From you. Think on it,” he pressed the matter, taking her by the shoulders again, though a little more sure in his grip. “A son, by my blood and yours. Now there would be an heir worthy of my name, my throne, my legacy. There would be a son to follow in my footsteps, finish my work, unify Skyrim and defeat the Thalmor. Our son, Gerhild, consider it. Please.” He stroked her skin, his thumbs making small circles, warming her and chilling her at the same time.

She tilted her head slightly, but held his gaze steadily. “You have an odd way of trying to persuade a person.”

“So, you’ll do it? You’ll give me an heir? A son?” He thought he may have pressed her too fast too soon, but she seemed to be open to the proposition. If only he could force her to say yes.

“You have an heir already…”

“A girl!” he argued, “One who isn’t mine. I want a son! Someone who can continue my work after I’m gone.”

“Careful, Ulfric,” she warned, “I’m a girl, remember? And Dovahkiin.”

“That’s why I want you to be his mother. You alone would be worthy to birth me a son. Our son. The son of Ulfric Stormcloak and the Last Dragonborn. He would be a god among men.”

The light in his eyes almost burned her it was so intense. Briefly she wondered if Ulfric had gone mad, or if he was simply overwhelmed with this real—or imagined?—affair. “You would have your heir be a bastard?”

“My ‘heir’ is already a bastard,” he countered, “Though not of my seed. But I would gladly set Nilsine aside and take you as my wife, if that is what concerns you.”

“Hardly,” she scoffed, at last able to break his grip on her shoulders and take half a step back for a bit of air. “Marriage is the least of my concerns with your proposition.”

“Then what are your concerns?”

“Mainly, I am Dovahkiin. The Last Dragonborn. Don’t you understand what that entails?”

His brow furrowed, a little angry at her scathing tone. “I know you can Shout, so can I…”

“Oh, it’s more than that, Ulfric. I absorb the souls of dragons. I couldn’t tell you off hand just how many souls I have consumed, how many of their restless slumbers moan and mutter within me. And I took one more this afternoon.”

“That shouldn’t affect the babe…”

“That wouldn’t, no,” she broke over his words again, “But the dragons would. They seek me out, mostly—I suspect—under Alduin’s orders, as the one who can defeat me will gain great respect among the other dragons. Even though all have fallen to my blade, they still hunt me. They still challenge me. What kind of a mother would I be, allowing myself to get pregnant, knowing that at any time a dragon could find me and fight me. All it would take is one lucky blow, and I’d lose the babe.”

“You’ll stay here, in the palace, where I can protect you…”

Her derisive laughter stopped his words this time. “Here in Windhelm? The dragons would still find me; worse, I’d be pinned down to one spot, unable to escape. And you’d be risking the lives of everyone in the palace, everyone in Windhelm, just for this one babe?

“What’s more, you’d have your mistress and your wife under the same roof. You’d suffer her to feel envy, watching my belly swell with your seed, right there in front of her face every day. And you’d suffer me to feel shame, having to take the slights and insults from her and at the same time accepting her charity.”

“She… she wouldn’t dare…”

“She’d have every right and you know it!” Gerhild had to look away, had to take a breath that wasn’t tainted with his breath, if only to exhale the madness she had been inhaling off of him. “No, Ulfric, even if my heart hadn’t belonged to Vorstag,” she looked back to him, “I wouldn’t birth you—or any man—a child. I’m sorry. I know this must hurt you deeply, but I won’t do it. Ask anything else of me, and if it’s in my power I will grant it, but I will not give you an heir.”

His face was flushed with anger, his blue eyes hard as steel, his mouth pressed into a disapproving line beneath his goatee. He'd lost control, of himself and the situation, and his mind thoughtlessly seized on the first alternative that came to him. “Very well,” he commanded, “If you will not give me an heir to finish my work, then finish my work yourself. Give me Skyrim. Free us from a weak Empire. End this Civil War and drive out the Thalmor!”

She smiled up at him, just a small smile, soft and tender at one corner of her mouth, as things became clearer. No, it hadn’t been madness that drove him to propose she bear him an heir—such a ridiculous idea! Shortly after they had first met, long before his marriage, he had tried several times to propose to her. It was only his desire, his deep-seated hatred of the Thalmor, that wanted a strong son to follow after him. He was feeling the weight of his years on his shoulders; and the frustration over the current stalemate in the war was making him fear his death would come before his dream could be achieved. Well, she could ease his worries. She could finish this war in just a few months. She almost laughed at the thought of how easy it would be: the Dragonborn leading an army of Stormcloaks from the back of a dragon.

More so, the war would give her an excuse to continue her search for Vorstag, letting him know where she was, what she was doing, encouraging him to come forwards, to return to her. Especially as she would take the Reach last. His beloved Reach. Aye, he’d come out of hiding then, because he knew he alone could persuade her not to spill any blood, not to attack his friends—and hers.

It was a win-win situation: Ulfric would be High King of Skyrim, and Gerhild would have Vorstag once more. Her smile grew as she made a satisfied little humming noise at the thought, and returned her attention to Ulfric.

“Now that, my dear Ulfric, I can do. But I know how you hate to deal with business while you are in this room. We’ll talk in the morning,” she reached up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

Ulfric watched her leave him, too shocked by her sudden acquiescence and—enthusiasm?—to think of anything to make her stay. He was taken aback at first, still hurt and angry that she wouldn’t let him impregnate her. But eventually he decided it didn’t matter, as long as the Thalmor were driven from his home, his land. So what if his heir wasn’t of his seed? As distasteful and embarrassing as that was, he knew neither Nilsine nor Yrsarald would ever breathe a word of the truth; no one would ever know his shame. And he still had his pet dragon, feeding from his hand, standing loyally by his side, willing to do his bidding and give him Skyrim. The High King’s Throne was as good as his.

* * *

The day was warm, the sunlight bright and the air hung thick without a breeze to stir it. A lone man toiled in a field, shovel in hand, his back bent with his work. He had stripped down to his leggings and boots, his broad shoulders tanning in the summer sun, and when he stood to stretch over-worked muscles there were three parallel scars visible on his chest. Soft brown eyes stared out over the valley, a small scar just beneath one eyebrow.

He’d kept these scars—though they readily identified him despite his new face—he’d kept these scars because they held a great deal of meaning to him. The other scars he’d gotten rid of: lash marks across his back, that wide mark down the center of his chest—some nights he would wake up gasping, having dreamed again of Norilar’s fist squeezing tight. But the scars from the troll when he and Gerhild had gone after Cosnach and retrieved Jarl Igmund’s father’s shield, and the scar from the fistfight when Rolff nearly knocked his head off, those scars he kept.

“Rigmar!” a girl’s voice called across the field. He turned, somewhat used to his new name, as the girl—on the cusp of womanhood—was constantly finding excuses to use it and talk with him. He raised his hand, waving to let her know where he was working on digging up a large rock. He was quite a bit taller, and watched the tops of the crops bend and sway as she made her way towards him.

“Rigmar,” she called again as she was getting close, “Papa says to stay out here in the field. There are soldiers coming.”

He nodded, casting about for his tunic. “Did he say for how long?”

She shrugged, walking around the rock idly and pretending she wasn’t looking at his broad back and toned limbs. “No, but I suppose it’s like last time, when my brother was taken.”

“Your brother?” he asked. He’d been working for the farmer and his daughter for only three days, and hadn’t gotten to know them very well yet. He knew they were poor Bretons, trying to eke out an honest living on their farm here in the Reach. After a month on his own, he offered to stay on for a bit and help, in exchange for room and board. The farmer had seemed hesitant at first, but last night had warmed up to him enough to share a couple of bottles of mead—and the latest gossip.

“Uh-huh, Imperials took him, after they came looking for volunteers. So they can have a bigger army to fight the Stormcloaks.” She bent a head of grain from a stalk and started picking at the kernels. “They say the Dragonborn has sided with the Stormcloaks. And she rides a dragon into battle. Do you think it’s true?”

He made a sort of non-committal noise as he pulled the fabric over his shoulders. Aye, he knew it could be true; Gerhild had always been a Stormcloak at heart, and he knew she had a Shout that could bend even a dragon’s will to hers. “Hopefully, we’ll never know. Did you think to bring any water?”

“No, but I could fetch you some…”

“Not now,” he said quietly, taking her arm and pulling her down as he knelt. “They’re here…”

Both of them peered through the waving stalks, the girl’s hands gripping the fabric of Rigmar’s shirt hard enough to wrinkle it. He stayed silent and still, willing her to do the same, as he tried to figure out what was happening.

Snatches of conversation floated out to them, but most of it was weighed down by the heavy summer air. The farmer was waving his arms in a threatening manner, up until the moment one soldier pulled out his short sword and brought it up to his throat. The girl gasped, and Rigmar had to quickly grab hold of her and cover her mouth with a hand.

“Be still,” he breathed into her ear. Any other time she would have giggled and swooned, having a handsome man pressing so intimately against her. But at that moment, she was more concerned for her father’s safety. She gave a token struggle, more to show she wasn't satisfied sitting there in the field while her father was threatened.

But she stayed put.

Until the Imperial Captain started towards the field. “Come out!” she commanded, boosting her voice as if volume would make others more likely to obey her.

They’re looking for me, he thought. Someone must have told them that the farmer had an able-bodied hired hand, and now they’re here to ‘volunteer’ me into their army. Stuhn, that would be awkward!

“Come out, girl, and let’s have a look at you!”

The two were shocked. Both of them were so sure the soldiers had come for the man named Rigmar, that neither one had considered they came for the girl. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye as he slowly let go of her.

“Come now, or we’ll kill your father, and then come in after you!”

“Go on,” Rigmar said softly, “It’ll be alright. They won’t take you; you’re too young.”

She believed him. Gods, she wanted to believe him, anyway. She stood, hesitant, and started making her way to the edge of the field. Then she started having second thoughts, and looked over her shoulder at him. He had remained kneeling, the shovel in his hands, watching her closely. He gave her a charming smile, instilling some of his confidence into her. Reassured, she pulled her eyes off of him and raced to the edge of the field.

As soon as she was out of sight, he also started for the edge of the field, though off to the side behind the farmhouse. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her not to reveal his hiding place, or reveal that there was a man hiding in the field, but he’d rather not take any chances. He didn’t want to join any army, but he really didn’t want to join the Legion. Gods, what would Gerhild do, if she found out he was on the side of the Imperials?

He came out behind a broken wagon, one side of which lay on the ground, making it look like a small lean-to. Quickly he crab-walked on the ground until he could scurry, undetected, beneath the tilting vehicle. He had meant to fix the bent axel and splintered wheel tomorrow, after he had removed that inconvenient rock from the field. Now he merely hoped he would have the chance.

“Fine,” the Captain was saying, her voice clearer now because he was closer, “She’s too young. But your neighbor mentioned you have a man here, a drifter, who’s been helping out for the past few days.”

“He was just passing through,” the farmer said quickly. “And offered to do some odd chores in exchange for food and shelter. He left this morning, probably long gone by now, headed east.”

The Captain grumbled something he couldn’t catch, but signaled to her man to drop his sword from the farmer’s neck. “Heading for the Stormcloaks, no doubt. Very well, we won't find any more volunteers today. You will put us up for the night. You there,” she pointed to one of her soldiers, “Secure the new recruits to the fence, then come and get something to eat. Go on, girl,” she made to swat at the daughter’s backside, “Start making us supper. We’ve been marching for days, and still have a ways to go before we reach Fort Sunguard.”

Rigmar listened to them for a bit longer, mostly to assure himself no one was going to come wandering over to his hiding place. Damn Imperials, forcing people to join their ranks. They’d be lucky if every last one of their “new volunteers” didn’t throw down their weapons and surrender at the first sign of the Dragonborn.

He waited, feeling his muscles cramp in the close space, straining all his senses to the breaking point, but no one stumbled across him. At last evening came, the shadow of the house falling across the yard. Beneath the wagon he was barely breathing, the air hot and stifling, the shadow doing little to ease his discomfort. He saw the farmer come out and ostensibly relieve himself near the edge of the field, but he made no move to make his presence known, just in case the farmer was being watched. He heard him mumble something, and something small fell to the ground. Then the farmer went back inside.

Rigmar looked at what he had dropped, and saw a small apple dumpling. Silently he blessed the man, but still he waited to make sure no one was watching. He may be paranoid, but after all he’d been through…

…Well, caution was the better part of valor. And though he didn’t feel particularly noble, hiding from the Imperials, he knew his appearance now would get the farmer and his daughter into trouble. So for their sake, he stayed hidden until it was full night.

Then he crept out and ate the dumpling.

It was far from satisfying, but it was tasty. Next he crept silently over to where the “volunteers” were chained to the farmer’s fence. The soldier on guard duty had his face buried in his supper, lax in his watch as he thought everyone was secure, and didn’t think there was danger nearby. Rigmar signaled the others to keep silent, and with his shovel he managed to loosen one of the stiles.

Very quickly all Oblivion broke loose, as the prisoners/volunteers pulled their cuffs free of the chain and began scattering, running in every direction. The soldier gave a shout, but couldn’t stop them all by himself. The other soldiers came running out of the farmhouse, but by then it was too late.

“What happened?” Rigmar could hear the Captain shout as he also raced away.

“The fence… it broke… prisoners escaped…”

“After them!”

“…too dark…”

Anything else became drowned out by his breath, heavy and forceful, as he ran off into the night, shovel in hand. At least it sounded like the Imperials believed it had been an accident. But he couldn’t stay too close, as they would start looking for the escapees, and soon. So he had to leave the farmer and his daughter, stealing their shovel, never to return.

By morning he was several leagues away, hunkered down beside a small pool, drinking his fill of the cool water.

“You have been very dissatisfying, do you know that?”

He jumped to his feet, gripping the shovel in both hands, swinging the blade around towards whoever had spoken. He was expecting the Imperials, that they had somehow tracked him through the night. But he only found one man standing there behind him, arms akimbo, dressed in mages robes.

“Sam?!”

“Vorstag!” he replied with mock enthusiasm, “Or is it Rigmar. I don’t seem to be able to keep track…”

“By the Nine,” he saw Sam cringe, but didn’t pause to consider, “What happened? How did you find me? You know what,” he waved at him, like shooing away a fly, “Never mind. I’m in enough of a fix because of you…”

“It was supposed to be good, clean fun. Well, perhaps not clean,” Sam sniggered, “But fun all the same.”

“I don’t care,” he said stubbornly, crossing his arms, “I don’t want to have anything more to do with you. I lost my pants…”

“I know where they are.”

“…was almost arrested…”

“It’s not a party unless someone gets arrested.”

“…not to mention running out on the Ebony Warrior…”

“Oh, she’s fine.”

“…and everything that happened at the Temple.”

“What Temple?” Sam sounded genuinely perplexed.

Vorstag stared at him slack-jawed. “The Temple of Dibella? In Markarth?”

Sam smacked his forehead, his eyes wide with astonishment. “That’s where you ended up? And here I thought you had gotten out of Skyrim altogether.” He smiled slyly as he continued, “So, do you have them?”

“Have what?” Vorstag asked, confused.

“Do you have what we need to fix my staff? You know, the slaughter fish scales, juniper berries, and a mammoth tusk? By the way, if you see a mammoth walking around with one tusk, you might want to run away. It’s still very pissed off at you.” He laughed maniacally.

Vorstag blinked.

“Oh, come now, you remember, don’t you? We were having a grand time, until my staff broke, and you said you could fix it…”

Vorstag blinked twice.

“So you headed off to collect what you would need, and said you’d meet me back at my home. Well, you never came.”

He’d had enough. He stalked up to Sam, drove the blade of the shovel into the ground mere inches from his feet, and leaned right into his face. “I don’t remember a damn thing after beating you in that stupid drinking contest!”

“That’s part of the game,” he explained calmly. “You wake up with those… items… and you try to figure out what happened while you were blind drunk! It’s great fun!” He affected a pout, “But you wouldn’t play. You left your items behind, and didn’t even try to figure out what happened to you, or to me, or to your leggings,” he waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Vorstag’s knuckles were white around the shaft of the shovel. “Go away.”

“What?”

“I said, go away. Get out of here. Stay out of my life! You’ve no right to…”

“Oh-ho-ho,” Sam interrupted him, “You’re wrong there; I have every right. Because I got to you first! So there!”

“Stuhn’s Shield,” he muttered, pulling the shovel out of the ground, “You don’t make any sense.”

“Don’t walk away from me, Vorstag,” he threatened. “You traded your fate for hers. And I won! Fair and square! And if you’re not going to play, then I’ll… I’ll…”

“You’ll what? Challenge me to a drinking contest again?” he asked sarcastically. He turned and started walking away.

Sam narrowed his eyes. “No, no, no. If you won’t give me entertainment, then you’ll give no one entertainment. I’ll bury so you deep underground, you’ll never find your way out!”

There was a bright flash of lightning, followed by a loud crack of thunder, both of which came from a clear blue sky. The next moment, the grassland was empty of the two men, a gentle breeze bending the tops of the blades of grass and rippling the surface of the pond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, ah, yup, Ulfric is creepy, and probably a little insane—just a pinch to add some flavor. I will admit, when this story was rattling around in my head, Gerhild and Ulfric got smutty with it at least five or six times, including the scene in this past chapter. As I wrote the story out on my laptop, however, I found I just couldn’t do it. Gerhild was too strong, Ulfric was too pushy, Vorstag already had her heart, and a dozen more reasons… It was hard to let go of the idea, but I’m glad I did. I think the story was better for it—Gerhild remains faithful to Vorstag.  
> *sigh*  
> I'm trying hard to push through this rewrite, and get you all caught up to where I'm at on the other site. (Mainly because rewriting this is a bit distracting, and I already have enough distractions what with writing two other stories—why oh why must I overburden myself?) So, can I get a third chapter out today? Cross your fingers...


	24. Of Enemies, Old and New

Vorstag woke to another pounding headache.

“Stuhn’s Shield,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes against the pain. The ache didn’t recede, so he threw an arm over his eyes for good measure.

A loud clang and a swift smack across his ribs let him know that he still held a shovel in his hands. He grunted more from exasperation than from pain, his head hurting more than his pride, and lifted his forearm just far enough to peek at his surroundings.

At first he saw nothing, and a sudden surge of panic gripped his heart, that he was blind again, lost in some unknown and unknowable area. He gasped and sat up, and promptly banged his head on something solid. Grunting again, the fear knocked out of him, he fell back to the ground. One hand reached up, fingers outstretched, to try to discover what it was he had bumped into. He felt crumbling dirt and unyielding rock, with bits of thick roots entwined throughout. The panic returned in full force, as he began imagining that he had been buried alive, deep within the bowels of Nirn. He couldn’t help himself, and thrust his arms and kicked his legs out in every direction, hoping and praying for empty air…

His body’s balance shifted, and he lost his perch and started rolling downhill. He spun, shovel falling from his hand, and didn’t stop until he reached a stream at the bottom of the hill. He made a splash with one arm and shoulder, nothing spectacular, but it was enough to disturb the surface. He stared in amazement as the water slowly calmed, his new environment revealed to him in curving slivers through the waves.

Where in Oblivion was he?

Slowly, carefully, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he lifted his face up to look around him. He traced the track he had made in the black soil, following it uphill until he could just make out, one shade of black a little darker than the others, the small overhang he had been lying beneath. Alright, so he hadn’t been buried alive, it just felt like it. Feeling a little more calm, he expanded his field of view.

The area was boundless, disappearing into darkness in every direction. It was large enough to make it seem like he was outside, but every so often there was a pillar of rock coming up from the ground to disappear into the blackness above him, to let him know he wasn’t outside but within a vast cavern.

A vast cavern half the size of Skyrim, he thought to himself.

That he was underground was confirmed by the lack of sun, moons, stars, or anything resembling the sky. There was no sound of insects or birds, or of wind blowing through grass or trees. There were no grass or trees, the landscape barren of any normal plant life.

As his eyes grew more accustomed, he somewhat corrected himself. Every so often there were clusters of glowing mushrooms, some knee high, some as tall as a man, some reaching heights taller than a castle. He stared at the glowing fungi, their luminescence the only source of light in the area, a soft and steady blue-green.

It would be disturbingly beautiful, if he only knew he wasn’t on some plane of Oblivion, if he only knew where on Nirn he was and how he got there.

And how to get out.

“…Fuck…”

He made a quick search and found the shovel. Alright, that was something familiar, something normal, something he had with him when…

…when he ran across Sam again. Sam, the guy who challenged him to a drinking contest back in Riften; the same guy who got him so drunk he blacked out and woke up in Markarth. Sam… Sam Gwee-something. Could he have done something to transport him here to this… this black expanse?

It was possible. Apparently a lot of crazy shit happened when Sam was around. But how could he have done this?

Vorstag gave up trying to reason it out for the time being. There were more immediate concerns he had to deal with. The first order of business was shelter, though looking around he figured he wouldn’t have to worry about the weather. He didn’t know if he should be concerned about any hostile animals, but if there were mushrooms to eat, there could be things to eat those mushrooms. He gripped the shovel a little tighter in his hands and, picking a direction at random, started walking.

He crested a hill and immediately dropped down to his stomach, the sight that met his eyes making him initially cautious. Below him in a small valley, a skirmish was warring between a small band of Falmer and a Dwarven automaton. The automaton appeared to be winning.

A charming smile flowed across Vorstag’s face as he waited for his opportunity. “Now this, I can handle.”

* * *

Lies.

Lies were surrounding her, infusing her, drowning her.

She was losing herself, if she hadn’t lost her true self already.

It was too hard to keep track, who she was to whom: Lady Gerhild North-Wind, Thane of Markarth, Thane of Whiterun, Ward of Ulfric Stormcloak…

Thief.

Adventurer.

Spy.

Ebony Warrior.

Dragonborn.

She began to wonder if it mattered. Ulfric had called out to her in front of the gods and everyone at the feast. Just her luck, the Gray-Mane brothers and their friends had been there, new recruits pressed into working as palace servants due to all the extra guests. They’d recognized her armor as the Ebony Warrior. They’d recognized her face as Thane of Whiterun. And Ulfric had named her Dragonborn…

She allowed them to corner her the next day, and asked them to remain silent in regards to what happened at Northwatch Keep. She told them that aye, Vorstag was alive, he knew who she was, but with the Thalmor still after him, he had to remain ‘dead.’ She claimed she had him safely hidden away where the Thalmor would never find him. And once she had killed Norilar and driven the Thalmor from Skyrim, it would be safe for him to come home. Lies…

Norilar, too, had figured out who she was, or at least made an educated guess that was right on the money. He had abducted Vorstag to torture him into confirming the Dragonborn's identity. If the Thalmor were that close to learning who she was, should she really try to hide it any longer? What was the point? Whom was she protecting, if even the suspicion had gotten Vorstag abducted…

The soft snore of a dragon temporarily broke her out of her thoughts. The Last Dragonborn was standing in the Stormcloak camp near Markarth, her mood as dark as her armor. A frost dragon was curled demurely before her, snout to tail as it dozed, so completely enthralled to her it never guessed at its fate. Her gauntleted hand rested just behind one horn, like she was giving comfort or affection to a favorite pet. The troops around her busied themselves and tried to ignore the beast. That was fine by her, giving her time and space to meander through her dark thoughts, like Vorstag used to do.

Vorstag… Vorstag was a no-show. She had done everything in her power to draw him out into the open. She had been obvious and visible in every battle at every fort and city, but no one tried to approach her to speak with her. She had personally welcomed each and every new recruit into the army, but no one even remotely resembled Vorstag. And as they neared Markarth, she had seen to it that rumors raced ahead of them, how she would attack the city with a dragon—all lies. That threat alone should have been more than enough to make him come out of hiding, if only to try to persuade her to spare his precious Reach, and the city of his birth.

Yet he remained absent.

She pushed aside all thought of him. Regardless of the reasons, he was not there. Either he would eventually come, or he never would; in the meantime she had work to do.

The highest rooftops of Markarth could just be seen through the foothills and mountains. By now their scouts would have reported that she was near. She supposed she could take the city, as she had the others—attacking with a dragon from the air while the Stormcloaks attacked from the ground—but there was someone in particular in Markarth she wanted to see, and she didn’t want to take the risk that he might be killed in a skirmish before she could get her hands on him.

“Galmar!” she called, coming out of her musings and calling for the old warrior.

“Aye, lass,” he answered from nearby. He was one of the few who dared to remain informal with her when she was in full Dragonborn persona.

She let his familiarity slide, actually appreciating the fact that his attitude towards her never changed. “I’m going into Markarth first. Alone.”

“You sure?” he asked, eying the sleepy dragon warily. “The Jarl of Markarth is expecting you to attack, but I don’t think he fears you or the dragon. His city is made of stone and carved from the very mountains. It was one thing with the Imperial forts; plenty of archers for a dragon to pick off. And for Morthal and Falkreath; both of those cities were smaller and built mostly out of wood. But Markarth…”

“I have something specific in mind for this city,” she said quietly. “A little demonstration, if you will. This time, I’d like to try to take it with as little bloodshed as possible.”

“Because he was from here?”

Ice flowed through her veins at Galmar’s oblique mention of Vorstag. Yet she was as impassive as her ebony helmet.

“Look, Gerhild, I don’t like it,” he said, his voice for her ears alone so he felt comfortable using her name. “Jarl Igmund’s a sneaky bastard; he’s betrayed us before, remember.”

“I remember,” she said quietly. That little incident was, in part, responsible for her coming into existence.

“Jumping straight to the taking of a dragon’s soul, without troops to back you up, is risky.” He referred to how she demonstrated her power and ruthlessness after taking a Hold Capital. It left quite an impression—that she alone could tame a dragon, could make it attack on command, and would still be willing to take the soul of a creature so irrevocably enthralled to her. Everyone quickly understood that she was not a person to be crossed, that she would do what needed to be done, regardless of past loyalties or current oaths. If you defied her, or even if it was your nature to oppose her, your life was forfeit.

The emotionless ebony armor and unconcerned, even effortless taking of the dragon’s life only served to reinforce her reputation, besides proving herself Dragonborn.

“That’s not what I have in mind,” she waved his concern aside, “At least, not at first. There’s someone in Markarth I wish to speak with, and I don’t want to take the chance that he’ll be killed in a fight. The dragon and I will… invite him… to come and talk with us.” She patted its neck affectionately, rubbing at a sensitive spot just behind one if its horns. It purred in response. She may have once laughed at the horrified look on Galmar’s face, but with her heart so dead it now required effort to fake emotions, and she had other uses for her energies. “When I’m done, we’ll rejoin you and the troops and take Markarth, but perhaps after my little show, there will be less fight in them.”

Galmar wanted to argue. After traveling with her these past few months, he’d come to realize that, though she did listen to what he advised, she still did exactly what she wished. And there was something personal about Markarth, probably something to do with Vorstag. He’d learned quickly that that was one topic she was never willing to discuss. “Aye, lass, you’ll do it anyway, won’t you. But don’t let yourself get hurt, or Ulfric will have my head.”

She nodded, gripping his shoulder warmly, though her deep violet eyes remained cold and dead within her helmet. Then she turned from him and mounted the dragon. Immediately it came fully awake, roaring with eagerness to be off and flying once more, ignorant of its future. The Stormcloaks gave a cheer, still somewhat fearful of the beast but awed at the sight of the Dragonborn, her ebony armor polished to a mirror-like sheen. They cried and chanted, “Dovahkiin!” raising their weapons in salute, as she urged the dragon into the sky and circled the camp before heading towards Markarth.

Once airborne, in the dragon’s natural habitat, it’s movements were graceful and smooth. She guided it higher and higher, over the foothills until at last Markarth came fully into view. It was magnificent, the ancient Dwemer city cut out of the very mountain itself. Aye, they had never feared dragons, as there was very little a dragon could do against stone and soil. But she was more than dragon; she was Dragonborn. They effortlessly topped the walls and were inside, showing how useless fortifications were against her abilities.

Gerhild steered the dragon through the city, barely missing the tops of towers, scraping its nails on arches and balconies, dodging arrows and daggers and other projectiles. It was all in an effort to show the power and maneuverability of the dragon. And her supreme control over the beast. At long last her gamble paid off, and from out of Understone Keep came the one for whom she had been waiting.

She guided the dragon closer to the Keep, giving it commands in the dragon language. It flapped its wings, made a graceful turn, and appeared to be merely swooping around the Temple of Dibella. Suddenly it made another turn and dove, its front claws reaching out and seizing a far-too-curious Thalmor Justiciar. Just as quickly it pivoted on a wingtip and wheeled away.

The dragon roared with success, pleased with itself for having done the tricky maneuver without mishap. The Justiciar screamed, whether from fear or rage it couldn’t be determined. Guards shouted and cried, but were unable to affect a rescue. Gerhild almost—almost—smiled beneath her helmet.

She urged the dragon to fly around the rooftops a few times, her prize safely within its grasp, giving everyone a chance to clearly view the outraged and doomed Thalmor. Then she had the dragon make for the steep mountainsides, allowing it to find a suitable ledge big enough to land on, while still close enough for everyone in Markarth to have a view of what she was about to do.

The Justiciar was squirming, trying to free himself from the dragon. He immediately noticed Gerhild when she slid off the beast’s neck and began ranting at her in typical Thalmor arrogance. “Release me, you insolent bitch, before I have you killed!”

Gerhild laughed, though without warmth or humor. “Really, Ondolemar, is that any way to treat a friend?”

“You’re no friend of mine,” he spat, “Or of the Thalmor!”

“You called me friend, once,” she said, calmly removing her helmet so he could see her face.

“You!” he gasped, so shocked he paused in his struggles.

“Ah, so you recognize me now. I was fairly sure you didn’t at Elenwen’s party, not after the lengths I went through to disguise my face. But somehow Norilar knew to take Vorstag, to torture him to learn my identity. The only connection I could see was you.” She leaned in close to his face, her dead violet eyes burning him with ice. “You’re going to tell all about your involvement in Vorstag’s abduction. You’re going to tell me everything the Thalmor know about me. And you’re going to tell me where I can find Norilar.”

Ondolemar had gotten over his shock, enough anyway to have worked one arm free, and released a lightning spell. Quicker than lightning the dragon flicked one nail and pierced his arm, pinning it to the ground. The spell, already wide of its mark, was now aimed at his own leg. His muscles clenched, immediately stopping the spell and leaving him gasping for breath. The dragon took out its talon once it was sure he would be quieter.

She cast a spell, healing the wound in his arm, lest he bleed out before she was finished with him. “Well, that wasn’t very intelligent,” she said, watching as the dragon roughly handled him, tossed and trussed him, until he was face down on the stones. “Leave one arm out where I can reach it,” she added this last to the dragon.

When the Thalmor was positioned the way she wanted, she reached down and pulled his hood off, turning his head so he could see his outstretched arm. “Now, Ondolemar, time for our little talk. If I don’t like what you say to me, you’re going to find it unpleasant.” She grabbed his hand and tore off the glove.

“What are you doing!?” he demanded, trying not to watch the glove and hood disappear over the side of the ledge.

“Making sure you understand me.” Her voice was so calm, so unconcerned, it sent chills down his spine, which he endeavored to keep hidden. She grabbed the smallest finger, and with her ebony dagger, slowly sliced through the littlest appendage.

Ondolemar’s screams were more of outrage than pain, the healing spell she cast quickly closing the wound. She negligently tossed the bit of flesh and bone into the air, where the dragon caught it in its massive maw and ate it. “Where can I find Norilar?” She grabbed the next finger.

“Go to Oblivion!” his curse ended in another howl.

By the time she worked her way to his thumb, he was panting, his robes soaked in sweat and piss and bile.

The citizens of Markarth could hear Ondolemar’s screams, but if there were words mixed in there was no way to tell. Every once in a while a bit of the Thalmor’s robes would fall, or something else if the dragon missed catching its snack. They tried not to watch, but hour after hour they stared in fascinated horror at the display above their heads, craning their necks painfully, ever watchful for the moment when the Dragonborn would run out of Justiciar.

By evening, Gerhild was finished with her grisly chore. She cleaned her blade, put her helmet back on, and gave the rest to the dragon. Then she mounted it, and from their perch, her voice echoed throughout the valley, reinforced with the power of her Thu’um. “Hear me, citizens of Markarth! I am _Dovahkiin!_ ”

At the mention of her name in the dragon language, the beast gave a fearsome roar, its throat between her legs vibrating with the force of its voice.

An answering cheer could barely be heard from the streets beneath her. She looked, curious, and saw Stormcloak soldiers were already in the city, walking side-by-side with the Reach soldiers. Beneath her helmet one delicate eyebrow twitched fractionally; apparently Galmar hadn’t waited for her demonstration to finish. Then again, as she looked towards the porch in front of Understone Keep, she saw not only Galmar and Ralof waiting for her, but Thongvor Silver-Blood as well. No doubt the over-eager Thongvor had seized the opportunity to stage a coup. Well, no matter, as long as Markarth was taken with minimal loss of life.

Gerhild nudged the beast into the air, touring the city’s rooftops once more before making it land on the steps beneath the porch. After she dismounted, she took notice of how industrious Thongvor had been. He already had Igmund and his whole household in chains, standing in a line on the porch awaiting judgment. The Thalmor that had come with Ondolemar were also in chains, looking more than a little fearful at her and the dragon. She ignored them. She had already said all she needed to say; it was time for Galmar to speak, as Ulfric’s mouthpiece, and for her to do as he commanded, letting everyone know she was subservient to the Jarl of Eastmarch. It was a well-rehearsed ceremony, one they had already performed at Morthal, Whiterun, and Falkreath.

“Igmund,” the old warrior started, his voice gruff from hears of shouting over the din of battle, “You are hereby relieved of all title and lands here in the Reach, and exiled to Solitude, where you and your household will live within the Blue Palace under permanent house arrest.”

He may have wanted to answer, but a well-timed snort from the dragon made him reconsider.

“Thongvor Silver-Blood,” Galmar turned to him next, “Give me your sword.”

Thongvor, already anticipating what was to come, passed his sword over to Gerhild rather than Galmar. She took it with an inclination of her head and turned to face the dragon. She lifted the sword high above her, and in the dragon’s tongue, ordered it to fall upon the weapon.

The blade cut cleanly through the neck, drenching her in hot blood, which spilled like myriad waterfalls down the steps. The dragon shuddered and died, rolling its eyes up into its skull, sighing out its soul with its last breath. She stood there with the sword raised, while the body disintegrated, while the soul swirled around her and sank into her, while the citizens of Markarth cheered.

It was strange, that a few days before they were adamantly against the Stormcloak rebellion, but today they cheered the change.

She looked up, once the bones were crumbled and falling downhill to shatter apart, and took stock of the witnesses to this auspicious event. Bothela stood off to the side, the ancient apothecarist who, by the look on her face, knew the Dragonborn’s true identity. Closer yet stood Argis and Rhiada, her son Maniel in his arms. And in front of them was Ogmund, the old skald, no doubt taking note of every detail and already composing a ballad for the occasion.

A ballad full of lies…

“Jarl Thongvor,” Galmar was calling out, and she handed the sword back to him. “On behalf of Ulfric Stormcloak, I hereby name you Jarl of the Reach. All hail Jarl Thongvor!”

The cheer rose up, Gerhild’s voice enhanced to carry it through the whole city, through the very stones themselves. She stayed long enough to shake his hand and congratulate him, only because she was concerned for Argis and Rhiada. With a new Jarl on the throne, Lady Gerhild might not retain her status as Thane of Markarth. Gerhild had removed her gauntlet to shake his hand, a flash of silver on her finger. Thongvor had immediately recognized the ring, as his brother Thonar had given it to her years ago, and remembered just who wore it and why. He looked to her a moment in shock, before he swallowed and inclined his head. Aye, he knew her now, and Gerhild’s title and land would remain untouched, ensuring Argis and Rhiada would continue to have a place to live. She left the porch to walk through the city streets.

Lies and secrets… Stuhn’s Shield, she was tired of them all!

But the time was coming when they would be needed no longer. Once Solitude was taken, and Skyrim was free of the Empire and united under a new High King, there’d be no further need for subterfuge. She could leave Ulfric to his throne, and focus her attention on Alduin.

Then Norilar.

“So, your little demonstration worked,” Ralof’s voice came from the side, following her like an ever-faithful puppy. It was ridiculous for the Dragonborn to require an escort, but the niceties had to be maintained.

“Aye,” she answered softly, as she began strolling towards the front gates. She needed some air, and with night falling, she figured the countryside would be agreeably deserted. “Well enough, I suppose. Did we lose any men?”

“No,” he shook his head, “There was a little scuffle when the gates first opened, but as soon as the Reach guards proclaimed themselves as Thongvor’s men, we all backed down. By the time you were finished, the city was ours.” He skipped a couple steps until he was right at her elbow. “Did you learn anything useful?”

Though he was under the impression that Vorstag was dead, like Galmar and Ulfric, he did know that Gerhild was trying to track down a certain Thalmor Interrogator. He thought that it was because Norilar had been the one who tortured her, however, and had no idea what had happened at Northwatch Keep.

Lies. Lies. Lies.

“He did talk before it was over.” She nodded to the guards at the gates as they held the massive doors open for her and Ralof. “Norilar is in the Thalmor Embassy, just as I suspected.” He’d told her much more than that, but Ralof didn’t need to know it all. The Thalmor had all but proven her identity. Stuhn’s shield, if only she didn't have to pretend to be so many separate people. If only she could remember who she had been so long ago, or even who she wanted to be, if she had ever wanted to be anyone…

“At least your suspicions are confirmed now.”

“Aye,” she sighed, “I suppose. Gods, but I’m tired.” She leaned her shoulder against a stone pillar, sensing more than hearing the guards moving away to giver her some space.

Another Hold had fallen to the Stormcloaks. Another dragon soul had been consumed. Another Thalmor was dead by her hand. Another day had ended.

“Did you have to kill it?” Ralof, it seemed, was unwilling to leave her alone with her thoughts.

Gerhild didn’t turn as she answered his question. “Aye, it was a dragon, wasn’t it? And I’m Dragonborn, aren’t I? Besides, it made a good impression, on Jarl Thongvor, on the citizens of Markarth, on those Thalmor prisoners.”

“Aye, killing an enthralled and helpless dragon.”

She heard his tone of voice, and looked over her shoulder at him with narrowed eyes. “Feeling sympathy for dragons now, are we?”

“No,” he shrugged, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression mild and unconcerned. “Only questioning your methods. Seems a bit harsh…”

“Would you rather I kept it enthralled forever? Or released it to kill again?”

“And then there’s the torture of that Thalmor…”

“No less than what he and other Thalmor have done to us, and with less cause. How many lives has he taken, do you think?”

“That doesn’t make it right, lass,” he chided gently, fully facing her. “Aye, Thalmor have tortured and enslaved and raped their way across Skyrim. But doing the same to them, that isn’t justice, that’s revenge. And it won’t bring Vorstag back.”

He should know that was one thing she didn’t want to talk about, yet she couldn't even muster the interest to grow angry with him. She merely stood there, allowing him to finish his argument, without any sign of emotion or any thought of repercussions.

“Don’t become like them, Gerhild,” he reached forward to touch her armored shoulder affectionately. “I doubt either Ulgaarth or Maeganna would be very proud of that, their only daughter, becoming as ruthless as the Thalmor.”

Gerhild didn’t answer, but turned back to staring at the night, her thoughts dark and her heart numb. Aye, once she had been the daughter of Ulgaarth North-Wind and Maeganna Battle-Maiden. Once she had also been a poor, half-orphaned waif. She was no longer, however; she was Dragonborn. And she had to do whatever she could to survive, to triumph. If that meant torturing a Thalmor to death, so be it. If that meant killing dragons as tame as kittens, so be it. If that meant living her life alone…

So be it.

It was full dark, and most everyone was inside the city celebrating. Yet Gerhild wasn’t thinking about celebrating. She was tired, a tiredness of the soul rather than of the body. She looked at the path before her leading to the bridge, where the Stormcloaks had made camp, but didn’t feel like returning to her tent. She turned her face to the side, spied a path leading to a small mining camp, and decided she needed a walk. She set out without a word to Ralof; she knew he would be following her anyway. At least he had finally grown quiet and was allowing her to think.

She felt like for every area where she made progress, new areas would open up that needed her attention. Aye, Skyrim was nearly united; only Solitude and the calling of the Moot stood in the way of Ulfric becoming High King. However, she had been unable to find Vorstag or uncover any clue regarding him. Though she had confirmed where Norilar was hiding and what the Thalmor knew about her, she was no closer to finding an edge to help her defeat Alduin. That, at least, was one lesson she had learned from fighting Miraak, the First Dragonborn: make sure to have some unexpected trick up your sleeve, something your opponent couldn’t counter, something to give you an advantage or even a retreat—anything!

She kicked her frustration out on a non-offending stone.

“Excuse me, Dragonborn?” a voice called to her just before she reached the mining settlement. She pulled out of her thoughts, signaling to Ralof—following at a distance—to allow the person to approach.

“You have the advantage of me, sir,” she said in a deep, affected voice. Truthfully, she knew the grizzled old man coming towards her, but she wasn’t supposed to have ever stepped foot in Markarth before today.

“Ogmund the Skald,” he offered her his forearm in the Nordic fashion, and she took it warmly. “Citizen of Markarth, and entertainer at the Silver-Blood Inn.”

“Aren’t you missing a golden opportunity tonight?” At his perplexed look, she elaborated. “You’re a bard—excuse me, skald, right? Singing and story-telling are your livelihood. There are countless soldiers who need entertaining back in Markarth, who will no doubt pay you with an amazing amount of coin, or mead.” She waved one hand towards the city.

Ogmund laughed. “Aye, but I’ve come to realize lately that there’s more to life than coin, and drinking has lost its appeal.”

She tilted her head. “Surely that can’t be so, a Nord having his fill of drink!”

He laughed again. “I like you, Dragonborn, you have a wit about you that’s refreshing. I can see why he liked you.”

“Who?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“Vorstag,” he confirmed. “Vorstag of Markarth. Do you remember him? He traveled with you once, and then again fought a dragon with you not far from here…”

“I remember him,” she interrupted, not knowing how to change the subject. She supposed she should just give in; she was in the land where he was born, after all. “I also heard about his death. He was your friend; you have my condolences.”

“Thank you,” he replied automatically, “But that’s not why I wanted to talk with you. I… I think…” He stopped himself this time, to stare off to the side and blink his eyes clear. “I think something happened to him. I think he may not be dead. I think… I might’ve caught a glimpse of him.”

Coldness, protective coldness swept through her heart. No, she wouldn’t let herself feel hope. Vorstag had been adamant about not returning to anyone who knew him, to anyone who thought him dead—he wouldn’t have come back to Markarth, to Ogmund. Not without coming to Gerhild first. Not without Ogmund writing to Gerhild and telling her about it. “What makes you say that?” she asked cautiously.

“A few months ago,” he began, “There was a man here, in Markarth. He… he looked like my old friend, Rigmar, only young again, ya know.”

“Rigmar?”

“Aye,” he nodded, “Vorstag’s father. Late one night, this man, this Rigmar look-alike, he was hiding behind a barrel near my front door. Damn near gave me a heart attack, coming out of the shadows like he did. But we got to talking, and I found out that somehow he’d lost his pants, said he was robbed or something. I… well, he looked so much like Rigmar—like Vorstag—I gave him an old pair of leggings I had lying around. Felt like I was honoring his memory, by doing so. But this stranger kept calling me friend. And as he left, he said something peculiar…”

Gerhild was lost in her thoughts, remembering what Galathil had told her, that when she was done working on Vorstag’s face, he had said he looked like his father. Could it have been Vorstag, with his new face, here in Markarth? But why had he come here? And why didn’t he tell Ogmund who he was? Suddenly she realized the silence and gone on for too long, and that Ogmund was struggling with his own thoughts. “What is it?” she asked, not quite remembering what they had been talking about.

“He said it would be best if I forgot him. Then he said, ‘Talos be with you,’ like he knew.” He looked at her, his eyes watering again. “No one but Vorstag knew that I secretly continued to worship Talos, despite the ban. But the way this man said it, it was like, I don’t know, like he knew I worshiped Talos. He knew and he didn’t mind. That, and the way he asked me to forget about him, and his appearance was so similar…”

Beneath the armor she felt a chill roll up her spine and down her arms. She couldn’t contemplate what she felt, however, as he continued talking.

“I just… I don’t know if you know of Lady Gerhild North-Wind. She’s a Thane here in Markarth and in Whiterun. She and Vorstag, well, they were lovers. A cute couple.” He paused to give a small chuckle and discreetly wipe away a tear, “Though it took the two of them long enough to figure it out. Anyway, I doubt she’ll ever come back here again, to Markarth, not with him gone. But, if he’s not gone, if this stranger could… somehow… Bah!” he waved it aside. “I suppose not. Don’t mind me, Dragonborn, I just needed someone to talk with about this, someone who’d known Vorstag, and wouldn’t mind my being a Talos worshiper. I’d have preferred talking with Gerhild, but I’ll never see her again, and every time I tried to write a letter, it sounded ridiculous.”

She set a hand on his shoulder, “It’s alright, friend Ogmund,” she assured him, “Vorstag was a good man; his death affected everyone deeply. Seeing someone who looked like him, well, it can make one hope for things.”

He nodded and turned away from her to hide his tears, but didn’t speak.

Gerhild couldn’t let the matter drop, however, and had to ask, “Did you by chance happen to see which way this look-alike headed?”

He didn’t answer right away, and she wondered if he had heard her question, or was too lost in his thoughts, staring off into the shadow behind a building. Such a thing often happened to her, so she left him alone with his thoughts. She took a few steps away, turning her back to give him more privacy, and simply listened to the night.

It was strangely quiet, without the howl of a wolf or the chirp of an insect. Something was wrong. She strained her senses to pick out the slightest noise from her surroundings, hindered as she was by hood and helmet. She heard a faint rustling of fabric. A few pebbles crunched beneath a soft boot. A soft inhale of breath, like a gasp of surprise, followed by a long and slow exhale.

“Ogmund?”

The next moment something hit her, something strong and powerful enough to knock her off her feet and send her flying through the air. She landed on her back five or six paces away, the wind knocked out of her, and lost several precious seconds as she fought to regain control of her body.

“Leave the armored one; it’s too much effort. Take the others.”

Move! she screamed at her body. Weakly her limbs flailed, her lungs burned, and with superhuman effort she filled her chest with air.

 _“Fus Ro Dah!”_ She Shouted before she could even stand, rolling over towards the sound of the voices. She didn’t know where she aimed or what she hit, but she hit something. She could hear the grunt as a heavy object struck a juniper bush.

“Shit!” the voice sounded. “It’s the Dragonborn! Run!”

Oh no you don’t you won’t get away not until I know who you are…

Gerhild gained her feet at last, but was too winded to try Shouting again. Instead she pulled out her war axe and ran towards where she had heard something hit a bush. There was a man there, dressed in hide armor, his chest impaled by a branch. At his feet lay Ralof, dazed and on his hands and knees, but otherwise seeming alright. Her Shout hadn’t directly affected him, because he wasn’t her enemy, but her enemy had been holding him when she Shouted, so he had suffered a little.

Leaving him to recover, she began searching for Ogmund. _“Laas Yah Nir,”_ she Shouted as soon as she could manage it, using her Shout to detect entities, whether friend or foe, living or undead or automaton.

There was no sign of him, or anyone nearby, except for Ralof.

“Ogmund!” she shouted, her voice echoing with her Thu’um, but she received no answer. _“Laas Yah Nir.”_ She knew she couldn’t constantly repeat the Shout, but she used it as often as she could, trying to find any sign of the old skald.

“Ogmund!” another voice called, and Gerhild knew Ralof was up and moving, helping her search.

It took longer than she had wanted, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach the whole time, but finally Ralof called out to her, “Over here! I found him!” She raced through the brush to reach him, his dark silhouette still glowing with the power of her repeated Shouts.

Ogmund’s form was not, however. She dropped to her knees at his side, her hands shaking as she reached out for him. “…Ogmund…” Something dark and sticky was pooled around his body, soaking his armor, staining his beard and hair. As she picked up his shoulders, his head fell backwards, lifting his beard and exposing his neck, and she saw the gory wound on the side of his throat.

“By Talos!” Ralof whispered, “What happened?”

She didn’t answer right away, the tips of her gauntleted fingers touching the wound carefully. It looked like his neck had been ripped violently open. Closing the edges of the gash, she saw that the initial wound appeared to have been caused by two punctures.

“Where’s the one that I killed?” she asked, pushing herself to her feet. She retraced their steps, coming back to the bushes beside the path. The body was still hanging there, or what was left of it. It had been disintegrating slowly, flaking into ash and drifting to puddle on the grass. There was enough of it left, however, for her to pull back the lips and reveal the fangs.

“A fucking vampire! Gods, help us,” Ralof prayed.

“Aye,” she agreed. “Must’ve entranced both of you, lured you off the path, while my attention was elsewhere. Were you bitten?”

Ralof felt his neck, his hand coming away bloody. “Damn. I never noticed…”

Gerhild said nothing. She left the body there to finish disintegrating—the ashes as much proof of its identity as anything—but Ralof needed her attention. The two puncture marks weren’t bleeding so much as oozing, but she didn’t want to take any chances with her oldest friend. She cast a healing spell, closing the wounds instantly.

“Go and fetch someone to help us carry Ogmund back to Markarth.”

His eyes were a little wide now that it was sinking in what had happened. “I don’t want to leave you alone. What if they come back and…”

“Go,” she commanded, neither harshly nor gently, simply stated the one-word command. And he obeyed.

She went back to Ogmund’s body, not wanting to leave it alone in the cold night. Alone with him, she busied herself with rearranging his body, straightening his limbs, closing his eyes. She took his withered hands in hers, the joints gnarled with age and use, the pads of his fingers calloused from a lifetime of playing the lute. She held them for a moment, unable to say anything—to feel anything—so she crossed them on his chest.

Vampires, she thought to herself. She had heard rumors that there were more and more of them walking around Skyrim. Though she had defeated a clan of them up by Morthal, she knew that group hadn’t been the source of the rumors. The vampires north of Morthal had been timid and few in number. There had to be another group of them out there, a larger group. And more resourceful, more intelligent, more dangerous.

“You’ve just made my list, vampires,” she muttered to herself, “Just as soon as Ulfric is High King.”

Looking back down on Ogmund’s face, she tried to ease the lines of pain and fear etched there, his death mask, not wanting to remember him this way.

* * *

“You sent for me?” Norilar’s voice held just the right amount of timidity to be appropriately humble.

Elenwen was not impressed. She was sitting at her desk in the Thalmor Embassy, piles of dossiers and letters stacked before her. Her other assistants were busy stuffing items into chests: clothing, weapons, documents, valuables. Yet she had this one last assistant to deal with before she could focus on the chaos around her. “Yes,” she set aside the parchment in her hands before looking up at him. “We’re leaving Skyrim.”

Norilar tried hard not to look around at the others. “Oh? I’ll go pack.” Truthfully, he had packed his possessions last night, most of his valuables and documents either abandoned or destroyed back in Northwatch Keep.

“You won’t be coming with us.”

Norilar had started to turn away, and had to force himself to look back at her. No, no, no, she couldn’t mean what he thought she meant. “Mistress?”

“You will be staying here,” she clarified, enjoying the look of panic flash across his features before he could help it, “In Skyrim, not the Embassy. The Embassy will be abandoned; you’ll have to find somewhere else to stay. To hide.”

“Again, excuse me,” he almost whimpered. Damn, but why did things keep going wrong for him? Why couldn’t he, just for once, have something work out? “Why am I being left behind?”

Elenwen sadistically enjoyed the look of fear in his eyes. Gods, how she missed interrogating people. “You still have a job to do. Even though the Civil War is ending, what with the Stormcloaks perched to take Solitude before the week is out, there is still the matter of this Dragonborn—whatever her name is. You remain positive that this is the same girl who bit off your ear?”

He ignored the other Thalmor, sniggering in the background after overhearing of his disgrace. “I do.”

“Then find her,” Elenwen commanded. “This Dragonborn has not only set herself against the Empire, but against us! We cannot allow her to live. Find her. Kill her. Chop off her head and put it in a bag and send it to me. I’ll be back home, in the Summerset Isles.”

Norilar swallowed heavily. “By myself?”

“One Thalmor can remain undetected a lot easier than two, or a dozen,” she said as she handed a stack of dossiers to an assistant to pack. She looked up at him, faking surprise that he was still standing there. “Go on, Norilar. The bitch isn’t going to catch herself.”

Norilar was numb. He saluted Elenwen, but she was no longer paying him any attention. He turned smartly on his heel and headed out of her office.

Damn her!

And damn the Dragonborn bitch!

His steps were heavy as he stalked back to his room, but he paused on the threshold. There was nothing in there that he needed, that he could take with him, that wouldn’t immediately identify him as a Thalmor. And if he needed to stay hidden in Skyrim, stay undetected, he’d have to play at being a simple Altmer. That meant no Thalmor robes.

He began stripping as he walked away, heading for the kitchens. He knew the servants kept extra clothing there; he’d take some to wear. His ear would still be a problem; he’d also need a hat or a cowl to cover his head. Then he’d stay around Solitude, perhaps even within the city, and wait for the Dragonborn to show herself. He’d follow her, dog her footsteps, become her shadow, until he found her weakness and killed her.

After all, he thought as he looked down at himself, standing now in peasant’s garb, he was no longer Norilar the Thalmor Interrogator.

He was nobody. But the Dragonborn's death would bring everything back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about Ogmund, but Gerhild needed a personal reason for doing some vampire-related stuff, and I wanted to give the old skald a teary ending *sniffs*  
> And, yup, I skipped most of the Civil War. This isn’t a story about that; this is a story about Gerhild and Vorstag, so excuse me for skipping over the stuff we all know, to get to the juicy stuff faster. I'm sure you don't mind ;D


	25. It's... Complicated

23rd First Seed: 4E 205

Gerhild stood on top of a small rise, surveying the landscape. Not that there was much to see. The area was aptly named Blackreach, but her newly heightened senses could easily penetrate the black.

Her Daedric armor nearly blended in with her surroundings, only the red, otherworldly glow pulsing between the plates gave any clue that she stood there. She still had her ebony weapons and shield, but the armor had been a gift from her new “friend,” a gift she couldn’t refuse. And why would she? It was useful, intimidating, and strong.

Like her.

She was still, listening to sounds unheard, seeing things that were hidden, one part—a new part—of her ever alert while the other wandered through her deep thoughts. It had been a hard road to get here—all the sacrifices she made, the bargains, the threats, the secrets, the lies… Yet she had what she wanted, or nearly so. She had her secret edge over Alduin, and soon she would have the Elder Scroll that would give her that final Thu’um to defeat him.

Then she would turn to Norilar. The bastard had haunted her dreams, back when she could still dream. She had caught glimpses of him in the crowd, ever since Solitude fell to the Stormcloaks. He seemed to be everywhere she went, always present but never quite close enough to reach. She began to fear she might be going mad and imagining him, but Ralof had commented on how he kept seeing a green-cowled Altmer wherever they went. Aye, Norilar would have to wear a cowl to hide his stump of an ear; the fact that he wore a cowl was as much of a giveaway as the disfigurement. At least, thanks to Ralof’s vigilance, she knew she wasn’t imagining him, she knew Norilar had remained in Skyrim even though the rest of the Thalmor had fled—curse them! And it seemed he was going to be obliging and stay nearby, ready to fall to her blade, once Alduin was defeated.

One enemy at a time, she reminded herself. Only a fool fights two fronts at once. Well, perhaps no more than two. She was currently engaging the vampires, while looking for something to help her against Alduin. Some might consider that two battles, but she considered it killing two birds with one stone.

And she was the stone.

The ever-alert side of her brought her out of her musing for a most unusual sight. She had seen many strange and wondrous things here in Blackreach—giant glowing mushrooms, crimson nirnroot, veins of geodes and rare ores, a long lost Dwemer city—all without the heart or soul to fully appreciate them.

However, the scene in the valley below her was something else. A group of Falmer were fighting a Dwarven automaton… no, that wasn’t an automaton, at least, not like any she’d yet encountered. It was taller and thicker than a sphere, and without the wheel-like base to provide locomotion. But it was too short to be a centurion, even though it wielded a hammer at the end of one arm, and a sword at the end of the other. She watched the battle dispassionately, a part of her wondering which side would triumph, before she almost negligently Shouted, _“Laas Yah Nir.”_

Strange, she thought to herself, the Falmer glowed as enemies, but the automaton seemed to be an ally. Perhaps it was necessary to her quest, to finding the Elder Scroll hidden somewhere here in Blackreach. Shrugging, she set aside her curiosity and prepared to join the battle. Regardless of what it was, it was only barely holding its own against the Falmer. And she doubted it could see the additional Falmer on their way, the ones that her Shout had showed her. If she needed that automaton for her quest, then she would have to rescue it.

She ran downhill, pulling out her war axe as she went, deciding not to use her crossbow as the Falmer and automaton were too close together, and she couldn’t risk a stray bolt hitting the automaton. She kept quiet as smoke, almost flying into the fight, bursting upon them before they knew she was coming. Two quick swings, and two Falmer were dead at her feet.

The automaton took notice of her, but had its hands full with three Falmer and couldn’t do more than make sure she wasn’t sneaking up to kill it. She left it alone, focusing on the last four Falmer, who had wisely decided she was the greater threat.

She swatted aside a spear with her forearm and cleanly lopped off the head of the Falmer who had wielded it. Two quick steps, a feint, and a spin and another Falmer was down. The last two Falmer came at her at the same time, one on either side, and she had to grab her dagger to have a weapon in each hand. The ring of steel on ebony echoed through the blackness like a death knell.

Yet it was all so easy. Her reflexes were too quick for them, her body too limber, her strength too overwhelming. Even with weapons as small as hers, and spears as long as theirs, they didn’t stand a chance. She repeatedly blocked their thrusts, lulled them into a rhythm, and in an impossible move she bent too far backwards as they thrust forwards. Her torso removed from their trajectory, they only had a moment to be surprised at her sudden disappearance before they impaled each other on their spears.

She twisted as she bent, confident that her last two foes were dead, to catch a glimpse at how the strange automaton was doing. It was not good. One Falmer had gotten a lucky blow on the back of its leg, almost hamstringing it, but fouling up the gears enough to cause the limb to seize.

Gerhild landed gently on an elbow, immediately rolled to bleed out her momentum, and came up catlike on her feet, arms spread, weapons at the ready. She threw her dagger, burying it deep into the neck of the Falmer behind the automaton, the one that had injured its leg. The last two had engaged the automaton from the front, and she didn’t have a clear shot at them. Seeing how close the reinforcements were, she knew there was only one option left. She drew back her shoulders, took a deep breath, and Shouted, _“Fus Ro Dah!”_

The two Falmer were thrown back, one landing broken and twisted around a small stalagmite, the other rolling backwards down a hill with the wind knocked to of it. The automaton remained unscathed, something she was thankful for as she hadn’t been sure it was a close enough ally not to be affected by her Shouts. She watched it turn towards her slowly, still limping on a bad leg, and stare at her a moment before a voice, slurred but amplified from within the metal face, said, “Gerhild?”

By the Nine, she knew that voice. It was… something familiar… something she had lost… something she had once longed for… it was… it was…

“Duck!” she commanded, coming out of her buried memories. With more Falmer coming, there was no time for musing. Even as the automaton obediently though awkwardly crouched, she leaped into the air and grabbed her crossbow. She managed to fire three bolts into the oncoming horde before she landed on her feet directly behind the automaton. Then it stood and, with their backs to each other, they fought the Falmer trying to surround them.

It had been a long time since she fought like this, and it felt… good? Aye, that was the feeling. Good. She could remember it, remember how it felt, and even now could feel a shadow of its former sensation. Gods, but how dead was she, inside and out, if she had to work at it to remember an emotion? They battled together, back-to-back, the trust between them as strong as it had ever been.

“There’s too many!” he shouted while parrying a spear thrust with his hammer and slicing off the arm of another with his sword.

Gerhild was hard pressed as well. A Falmer had managed to force one arm upwards while another shot an arrow into the less protected underside, penetrating between the plates of her armor. “I agree. _Faas Ru Maar!_ ”

The Falmer caught in her Shout gave a fearful cry, some even dropping their weapons as they ran away, frightened out of their minds. He glanced over his shoulder to see them run off, but had to immediately return his focus to the fight. He thought he remembered her learning part of that Shout, something to do with fear or dismay or something. He’d ask her later, when they were alone…

He pulled himself out of his musings, grunting as he turned to catch one who was about to stab her from behind. He noticed the shaft of the arrow in her side, breaking as she brought her arm down on yet another opponent, but didn’t comment. They had their hands full at the moment.

He chopped and swung and pounded his way through Falmer flesh, his body moving automatically, all the while his mind was repeating one name over and over and over. Gerhild. By the Nine, but he wanted to linger over the thought. He couldn’t afford to, not yet, and did his best to set it aside until the last of the Falmer were finally defeated.

But she was there, at his side, just like old times…

The fight did not last for too much longer, but it was long enough as far as he was concerned. He was winded by the time the rest of the Falmer were either crushed beneath the force of her Thu’um, or hacked to bits by his sword and hammer. He looked around, a bit dazedly, for the next enemy before he realized they were at long last alone. He spun to face her, and found her simply standing there, staring at him as he stared at her.

She was the first to speak. “Vorstag?”

“Aye,” he breathed, wanting to say so much more, not knowing where to start.

“Are you hurt?”

He felt like laughing, the relief and joy and love building inside him like a volcano, but he knew this wasn’t the time or place. He shook his head, limping a few steps closer to her. “Don’t think so,” he managed to say, his thin lips stretched wide in a charming smile beneath his unique helmet, “Other than they fouled up the knee joint of my armor. You?” he asked, thinking about the arrow wound under her arm.

Gerhild shook her head. Truthfully, she could have been sliced nearly in two, but right then she wouldn't have noticed. All she knew was… Vorstag… alive and whole and with her again. She wanted to close her eyes and listen to his voice, let him wrap his arms around her waist, feel his breath on her skin as they lay together… Stuhn’s Shield, but she had fucked things up. The realization struck her with the force of a bucketful of icy water. She saw him close the gap between them and make to put his arms around her, but his strange armor wouldn’t allow it. He gave a half of a laugh, as he looked down at his arms ending in weapons rather than hands, and said, “I know you thought I was dead, but… Ah, gods, there’s so much I want to tell you…”

“Not here,” she stopped him, though she did reach out to touch his helmeted cheek, softening the abrupt nature of her words. “We should get going before my Shout wears off and those Falmer I scared find their courage again.”

“Right,” he nodded, somewhat reluctantly, “Good point. Come on. My home isn’t too far away.”

“Your home?” she asked, retrieving her dagger from the dead Falmer.

“Aye, it’s a small Dwemer house. Got a nice little garden, if you like mushrooms. Me,” he paused to give a chuckle, “I’ve been here too long; had my fill of those rotten fungi a long time ago. Could you pick up those two skeevers? I would, but,” he gestured with his appendages, “I’d have to skewer them. It’s what I normally do, but…”

“Of course,” she answered quickly, and obligingly picked up the oversized rodents by their tails. “You were out hunting?”

He nodded, the gesture awkward and abrupt within the Dwemer helmet. “Like I said, got plenty of mushrooms to eat, but sometimes you need to sink your teeth into some meat, ya know? Luckily, there are plenty of skeevers around. Don’t think I’d wanna try Falmer.” He shuddered, his strange armor making a rattling sound as he did so.

“Wouldn’t have been out today but, well, I had a little accident with my supper. I have this Dwarven shield hanging above the fireplace, just a little decoration to make things feel more like home. Anyway, had a stew cooking in front of the fire, when the shield dropped from the mantle. Knocked it into the flames. I made another pot, but that used up the last of my skeever, so I thought I might as well come out and hunt for more, while the last bit cooked. Lucky I did, or we might not have seen each other.” He chatted amiably, telling her about the small dwelling and the surrounding area as they walked. He didn’t seem to mind her silence—had he ever?—but filled in the space between them with the comforting sound.

They rounded the base of a cliff, and she got her first view of where he had been living for gods know how long. Several of the giant glowing mushrooms seemed to float overhead, offering plenty of light to see by, giving her a clear view of the small, Dwemer built cottage. In front of it was what looked like a courtyard with a garden full of mushrooms, just as he had said. To one side he had managed to build a small skinning rack out of bits of Dwemer scrap metal. And a little further on there was a larger house. “What’s in there?” she asked automatically, her thieving compulsion surfacing, making her itch to take a peek inside.

“Don’t know,” he shrugged. “Place is locked, and I don’t have any picks, not that I know how to pick a lock.” His words ended in a chuckle, which she amazingly found herself almost mimicking. Stuhn’s Shield, how long had it been since the last time she laughed? And it was so easy, after just a few moments with him, to start to feel again. “You can check later. Right now, we should get inside, before we’re spotted.”

She nodded, motioning for him to lead the way. He walked up to his front door and shrugged, his arm sliding out of the metal sleeve and the Dwemer sword falling to the ground with a bit of noise. “Sorry,” he muttered, fumbling at the door for a moment before it opened. “Here it is. Not much, but it’s been home now for… I don’t know how long. Since I got here. Kinda hard to keep track of the days, when you can’t see the sun.”

He stepped aside, and Gerhild entered ahead of him. The house was small and cozy, but for one person she supposed it had all one would need. There was a bed to the left, made of stone like everything else seemed to be, but piled with small pillows made from skeever furs. To the right was the fireplace, a Dwemer bowl bubbling merrily with a mushroom and skeever stew. Directly in front of her was a table and two chairs, which she walked up to and set the dead skeevers down on top of.

“What do you think?” he asked, taking off his helmet and setting it on a low shelf next to the fireplace. “Not much, like I said, but it’s kept the Falmer out of my hair.”

She turned around to look at him as he divulged himself of his makeshift armor. He didn’t wear much underneath—she supposed he didn’t bother too often with clothing as he was the only person here—nothing more than a loincloth which only served to keep things out of the way. She found herself staring in painful fascination as his body was slowly revealed to her hungry gaze. Gods, but he was still built like a mountain, his muscles having regained their former strength after all the months of dining on skeever and lumbering around in that ridiculous armor. To see him so healthy, so strong, after everything he’d gone through, caused a warm tingle—one she thought lost forever—to flutter inside her before quickly dissipating.

It was strange. Though he had his scars removed, the ones Norilar gave him, Vorstag had left some scars untouched. There was a small scar, between his left eye and eyebrow, from his fistfight with Rolff in Windhelm—the same fight when he’d gotten the nickname ‘Arctic Stones.’ She supposed she could understand why he kept that scar, as a testament of his manliness or something. But he’d also kept the three scratches across his chest he’d gotten from a troll when they went to retrieve Igmund’s father’s shield. She knew he wasn’t sentimental—he wasn't one to keep mementos or souvenirs—and the only person who knew he had those scars or the story behind them was her, so she didn’t understand why he would have let those scars remain.

He finished setting aside the last piece of armor and, somewhat sheepishly, turned to face her, as if knowing already she would be staring.

The silence was deafening.

“I know,” he said at last, not stepping towards her no matter how badly he wanted to, “I… I don’t look the same.”

“You look like your father,” she agreed, remembering what the Face Sculptor had told her, what Ogmund had told her. The cheekbones were more angular, the jaw a little softer, and most notably the mesmerizing tattoo was gone. But his eyes were still Vorstag, still the same sad-puppy-dog brown.

He touched his cheek, as if the tattoo was still there, as if he knew that’s where she was staring. “I had my face changed because, well, the Thalmor were after me, and…”

“I know,” she said, taking a step forwards, her hand lifting with the fingers spread as if she would touch him.

It was all he needed. He reached out to her, wrapping his bare arms around her hard armor, his eyes flickering back and forth where he thought her eyes would be. “Gods, Gerhild, I… I don’t know what to say… I suppose you’re mad at me… you have every right… but I couldn’t… I mean, after what happened…”

“I know, Vorstag,” she repeated a little stronger, but he acted like he hadn’t heard her.

“I suppose I should start at the beginning.”

“You were abducted by the Thalmor,” she broke over his words, watching his eyes widen as she continued, loathing the way his expression changed. “Norilar staged your death so no one would look for you. He tortured you at Northwatch Keep for information on me, the Dragonborn.”

Again the clamorous silence returned.

“Thorald told you, didn’t he?” he asked, putting it together for himself, just a little bit wrong. “I’m sorry, Gerhild, I didn’t want you to know. You already thought me dead, and the Thalmor were still after me…” His arms shifted their grip, trying to find a way to hold her that didn’t get himself poked with the evil-looking spikes in her armor. His arm brushed against something, scratching his skin, and he turned her to find the arrowhead still impaled beneath her arm. “What’s this? Gerhild, you’ve been shot.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she tried to brush it off, pulling out of his arms and backing away. She knew she should first explain how she knew about his abduction, but there was too much ground to cover. Then again, she supposed it really didn’t matter which misunderstanding was tackled first.

“What do you mean, ‘nothing?’ If that stays in for too long, it could get infected, or work its way to the artery and you’d bleed out. Sit down,” he pointed to a chair, “And let me help you out of that horrible armor. We’ll get the arrowhead out first, then you can heal yourself. You can still cast a healing spell, can’t you?”

“Aye,” she murmured, but he wasn’t listening. He had taken off her gauntlets, and took a moment to hold her hands in his.

“By the Nine, but you’re cold. Forget the chair. Sit down in front of the fire. I’ll get you some pillows. Now let’s get this armor off carefully.”

She obeyed, feeling like the headsman’s axe was swinging downwards towards her neck, watching it descend in slow motion, while she did nothing to evade it.

He pulled off her helmet, expecting to see her face shining with love, but she dropped her gaze and turned away. His hand reached out to cup her chin, again feeling how cold her skin was, and her hand reached up to hold his and prevent him from lifting her face. He let go, somewhat reluctantly, and wondered, “What? Is something wrong?”

She didn’t answer, picking at a tuft of fur on one of the pillows. “How’d you make pillows without any feathers or straw for stuffing?”

“What?” the randomness of the question startled him. He shook his head, but answered as he helped her out of her cuirass, “Oh, ah, crushed chaurus chitin. Ground it down until it was just little beads, almost a powder, and stuffed it in the pillow. It shifts a little under your weight, but it supports your body fairly well. A bit noisy whenever you move, takes some getting used to, but it’s more comfortable than stone.” He set aside the cuirass and reached for her dagger. “Mind if I use this?”

“For what?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder, her eyelids open just far enough to see what he held, not to see his face.

“Cutting out the arrow.”

“Just pull it out,” she sighed, turning away again and going back to plucking miserably at the pillow.

“No, it’ll hurt less if I cut it out. Do you want something to bite down on in case, ya know, you need it?” He returned to her side, dagger in hand, to see her shake her head negatively in answer. A chill of warning ran down his spine as he knelt next to her. He ignored it and made her lift her arm so he could get a good look at the wound. “Gerhild…” his voice was bewildered, as he only then realized what was missing, what his subconscious had been trying to tell him was wrong. “You’re not bleeding. Did you already heal the wound, with the arrow still inside?” He looked closer, saw that there was no blood on her white tunic, or on the skin around the wound. In fact, there seemed to be no blood at all.

“Vorstag…” she sighed, wishing there was some way to hide it from him, fearing how he’d react. But there was no hope for it. She squared her shoulders and prepared herself to face what was about to come.

As the mystery of her strange behavior was finally solved, he found himself unable to move. Instinct and fear told him it was useless to run, told him it would be safer to keep still and hope he wasn’t seen. He could barely breathe as she at last lifted her face upwards, turned towards him, and pierced him with her eyes, not the cool violet or midnight blue he remembered in his dreams, but a warm and ruddy amber.

She felt… sadness… regret… resignation…? It was hard to tell, being so dead inside and out, what it was she felt. But her emotions were reawakening with him back. She did feel some pain, not physical but emotional, when she saw the fear and disgust in his eyes. Aye, he knew her for what she was now. Seeing that he wasn’t moving, she reached around with her other hand and plucked the arrow from her dead flesh. Resignation, she decided that was what she was feeling, as she dropped her gaze and stood. She walked over to her pack just inside the door, rummaged around for a moment, and brought out a small, squat red vial, ornately decorated with gold. She uncorked it and took a small sip.

Vorstag stared at her, not believing but unable to disbelieve. “You… Gerhild… you’re a…”

“A vampire,” she finished for him.

He stared at the wound as it closed, healing without a scar, the pale edges of skin pulling themselves together and hiding the bloodless and blackened flesh from view. Finally he found himself able to act. Finally he found his voice and his reason and his nerve. He pushed himself off the floor, the initial shock falling away, and walked up behind her. “What happened?” he asked, wrapping his arms around her cold-as-the-grave body.

“It’s… complicated…” she hedged, wanting to stay there while also wanting to pull away and hide.

He chuckled. The sound was so warm, so full of life and love, so well-remembered and longed for, she had to smile in response. His embrace was comforting, and it had been so long since she had any comfort, that she found herself turning towards him and clinging to him. “Gerhild,” he sighed into her hair, stroked her back, and gently urged, “Everything with you is complicated. So, un-complicate it.”

She should have tears in her eyes, hot tears of bitter regret. How could it be, that everything she had done—sacrificed, hidden, committed—all of it seemed worthless now that she stood within his arms? “I thought you were gone,” she whispered into his chest, “That I’d never see you again. You said you wouldn’t return to me, to anyone who knew you. I tried, Vorstag, I tried so hard, through the whole damn war, to do everything to get you to come out of hiding. That’s what I thought, that you were merely hiding from me, from everyone who knew you. And that if I threatened the Reach and Markarth, I thought you’d come out, if only to talk me into sparing your home. But we took Markarth, and you never showed. And then Ogmund said he thought he saw you—no, your father. And then the vampires killed him. And after Solitude, after Ulfric was named High King, I set my sights on destroying the vampires. But when Lord Harkon offered me this gift, I thought, why not? You were gone. There was nothing to live for. I could defeat the vampires from within easier than from without. And it wouldn’t stop me from defeating Alduin—it would probably help. And now I’m here, searching for an Elder Scroll to help me trick the vampires and destroy Alduin, and instead I find you…”

He didn’t understand half of what she said. He didn’t even try. He waited until the words wound down, until they stopped tumbling out from between her lips, until her body was still and cold in his embrace. “That all?”

She pulled back a little and looked at him, a tiny furrow between her eyebrows. “Well, er, basically…”

He nodded, fighting the urge to smile. “Just one question, then.”

She simply waited for him to ask.

“Could you repeat that, a little slower this time?” Damn, the corner of his mouth gave the slightest twitch. Of course she saw it, knew he was gently teasing her, but there was an answering twitch at the corner of her mouth.

“Aye, I suppose I could.” She would have blushed, if there was blood in her body. The little she’d had to drink from the Potion of Blood had been used to heal the small wound. “Where should I start?”

He shrugged, “At the beginning. Where else?”

“Where else, indeed,” she murmured.

Before she started, he helped himself to his stew, his stomach having made loud enough protests near the beginning of her story to warrant supper. They sat at the table, Vorstag eating and listening and asking a question now and then as Gerhild told her tale. She began with her reluctant trip to Windhelm. She described her conversation with Ulfric, their plans for ending the war, and her subsequent conquests of The Pale, Whiterun, and Falkreath Holds. He nodded, commenting on how he had heard about her riding a dragon, and saying that was approximately the time when he ended up in Blackreach.

She had just reached the part where Thongvor had his nearly bloodless coup in Markarth when the door burst open.

“Fuck!” cried Vorstag, jumping up from the table. Quickly he realized he had been too lax on their way to his house, neglecting to cover the scent of the dead skeevers. He had been doubly foolish in forgetting to bar the door. The Falmer had followed the trail to his house, and were now clamoring to get inside and kill them. He exchanged a look with Gerhild, but there was no time to talk. He took his table knife in one hand and lunged for the Dwarven shield, sitting on the floor beside the fireplace as he hadn’t had time yet to rehang it.

Gerhild was also moving, faster than humanly possible, her vampiric powers adding strength and speed and agility. She fought the Falmer with only her bare hands, trying hard to remain in control of her vampiric instincts, but it was difficult. She knew she could defeat them easily; all she had to do was to change into a vampire lord—but not in front of Vorstag. Please, Stuhn, she prayed, I don’t want him to see me like that please not that I’d rather die than have him see me become the embodiment of nightmares…

She glanced towards the door, where a Falmer was rifling through her pack. She saw him pick up the Attunement Sphere, snarl at the fight going on behind him, and head for the exit.

“Damn it!” she ground out between her teeth, the bed between her and the door. She looked over to Vorstag, who had managed to battle his way towards his strange armor and detach the sword from the sleeve to use against the Falmer. “Vorstag!” she called, nodding towards the door when he had a chance to throw a questioning look at her. “We need that sphere to get out of here!”

He didn’t answer, but shoved at the Falmer to his left with his shield, swung his sword in a menacing arc to his right, then leaped forward. In three steps he was out the door and chasing after the Falmer fleeing with his prize.

Blackreach always seemed darker whenever he first stepped outside. It took him precious seconds before he could see which direction the Falmer had run. He followed his ears more than his eyes, jumping over stones and dodging around corners. He caught up to him quickly, however, as the Falmer was unaware he was being pursued. In two strokes he was lying dead at Vorstag’s feet, the strange sphere rolling from a severed hand.

Panting, Vorstag walked after the sphere, having to drop his sword before he could pick it up. Then, cradling it in the crook of his shield arm, he turned and jogged back to the house. Gerhild was still inside facing who knows how many Falmer, and he…

He hit the door and bounced off.

“What the…” his words trailed away, his brow scrunching in confusion. He pushed at the door again, but it wouldn’t even budge. “…no…” he moaned, leaning hard, bracing his legs for leverage, and finally battering at the door with his shield. “No! Damn it! Gerhild! Open the door!”

He doubted she could hear him. Pressing his ear to the crack, he could barely make out the din of a fight from within. There was the sound of stone breaking, metal crashing to the floor, and… screams…? It wasn’t Gerhild screaming, but the Falmer. He listened from the outside, the noises muted by heavy stone and metal, but indisputable. Gerhild was fighting the Falmer single-handedly.

And she was winning.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, pressed against the impassible door, straining his ears for any sign of how the fight was going. He did know it took several heartbeats before he finally registered that he was listening to silence. Then, thankfully, there was the sound of the locking bar scraping upwards and the door began to open.

Gerhild stood there, framed in the doorway. Her clothing was torn and bloodied, though not with her blood. A few strands of hair were mussed, and there was a streak of red gore she had just wiped off her chin, drops falling off the back of her hand. Her features looked more gaunt, more angular, and more gray. She didn’t speak, her amber eyes burning with fire, her hanging open far enough to show her red-stained fangs.

He was frozen, unable to step into what had been his home. The floor beyond her was soaked in blood. Bits of bodies and random chunks of flesh were strewn about the place. Broken weapons lay beside broken bones. A stone chair had cracked, a Falmer’s body unnaturally twisted through the wreckage. In a word, it was carnage.

She saw the look in his eyes, the shock and disgust and loathing, and feared she had lost him again. Her gaze fell to her feet, watching the blood ooze slowly past and through the doorway.

Then a hand touched her cheek, warm with life, and she dared to look upon his face again. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his soft brown eyes now filled with concern.

She couldn’t understand the change. Hadn’t he just been looking at her with shock and revulsion? Then again, perhaps he had been looking at the scene behind her. She dared to hope she hadn’t alienated him, as she couldn’t bear the thought of ever again being without him in her life—or un-death. “No,” she shook her head, “At least, not severely. A little more of that potion I carry, and I’ll be fine.” Or fresh blood, she added to herself. His wrist was close to her mouth, the vein twitching with his pulse.

He nodded. He didn’t know what to say, so he pulled her to his chest, one arm still full of shield and sphere. She selfishly allowed it, though in her current state—heightened by the recent fight—she could both hear and feel his heart beating against her cheek.

“Vorstag, I…” she had to distract herself, had to remain in control now that the danger was past, “I should tell you… I mean… about this… about what I did just now…”

“It’s over,” he tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t have it.

“I… I locked you out… I did it on purpose… I didn’t want you to see… I’m a very powerful vampire…”

He laughed, not knowing what was funny, thinking maybe everything was so absurd he had to laugh to cope with it. “Couldn’t imagine you’d settle for being a weak vampire.”

She gave a short bark of what might have also been laughter, but he didn’t pursue the matter. She was with him, beside him, and he was going to do everything in his power to keep her there, no matter the cost.

“Suppose we should clean this up?”

“Why?” she asked, leaning back to look into his eyes, fiery amber to his wooden brown.

“Well, it is sort of my home,” he suggested.

“You wanna stay here?’ she teased him, focusing on the distraction and not the warmth of his body flushed with blood. “I would’ve thought you’d want to leave this place, return to Skyrim.”

He gripped her with both hands, dropping the sphere which she deftly caught thanks to her accentuated reflexes. “You… me… home…?”

“As soon as I find the Elder Scroll, we can use this to reach the surface, activate an elevator,” she gestured with the sphere. “If nothing else, we’ll go back up the way I came down, but I’d rather have the Scroll. Would save me a return trip…”

Her words were cut off as he lifted her off her feet and spun her around. He was laughing, full of strength and life and hope. “Ah, gods, to see the sky again. The sun! To feel the wind… Aye, Gerhild, leave the mess. Let’s get going.”

“Don’t you want to…” she gestured to his current state of near undress.

He looked down at himself, saw that he was wearing little more than his loincloth and a shield. He laughed again, his thin lips spread wide to show perfectly white teeth. “I guess I got ahead of myself. You’re right. Let me pack a few things, then we’ll get going.”

“I should make sure I still have the Lexicon,” she hummed, heading towards her pack. Actually, she was more concerned right then with finding her little vial of Potion of Blood. Vorstag’s presence was far too distracting, and after fighting Falmer twice in one day, and reverting to her vampire form, she was feeling exhausted. She needed to feed. She needed that vial!

The Falmer had efficiently rifled through her pack, moving items around, breaking some and hiding others. Her hand couldn’t find what she was looking for, however. She dumped her pack upside down, scattering the contents, splashing into the puddles of remaining blood.

“Gerhild?” his voice called to her from across the room, questioning and concerned.

She looked up at him and tried to smile reassuringly. “Slipped. Ah, here’s the Lexicon, all safe and sound.” She picked up the cube and replaced it in her pack. His brow furrowed a little, the look that meant he knew she wasn’t being completely honest with him, but was willing to let it slide for now. “Um, Vorstag,” she started, trying to sound merely curious and not desperate, “When you chased that one Falmer down, did you happen to see a small red vial?”

He tilted his head as he gave it serious consideration. “You mean that little vial you drank from, to heal that wound under your arm? No, I didn’t see it with him. Is it missing?”

“Aye, or I wouldn’t be asking.” She heard the reproachful look he gave her, even without looking up from repacking her knapsack. “Sorry, Vorstag, I guess I’m a little tired.”

“That vial,” he said as he popped his head through an old tunic. Thankfully his few remaining items of clothing had been tucked away in a chest and been missed by the blood splatter. “It has something to do with your being a vampire?”

“Aye,” she forced herself to sound civil, casting her search wider for her missing vial. “Since my body is dead, I can no longer be healed by magic; I have to drink blood to heal. The vial contains a potion I can drink instead.” She stopped suddenly, her eyes wide as she gave a little cry and started for the fireplace.

“What is it?” he asked, fastening his belt as he came over to see. She was kneeling on the floor a few feet in front of the hearth, her fingers picking up delicate pieces of red glass and broken gold filigree. He watched her for a moment, before he dared to ask, “This isn’t good, is it? I mean,” he continued, not wanting her to become cross with him again, “This is very bad. You needed that potion, to heal and stuff, right?”

She nodded numbly, feeling the heat radiating off his body just a few feet behind her. Stuhn’s Shield, the pulse of his blood was in her ears again. It was hard to drown out, but she wouldn’t do that not to him not now not ever!

“So, what do we do now?”

“We get out of here,” she said quietly, dropping the shards back to the floor and standing up. “Better get that armor back on. Who knows what we’ll find guarding the Elder Scroll.”

“What about you?” he asked, an idea beginning to grow. “You’re sliced open in a dozen places. Are you sure…”

She stopped him with a laugh. “I’m dead, or undead, at least. I can’t be killed, not by a few cuts. I’m not gonna bleed out,” she hefted her cuirass into place, “And this’ll hold me together long enough. After we reach the surface, I know where I can get more of that potion.” She searched for her gauntlets and helmet, which the Falmer had scattered all over the room.

“You sure?” he hummed. “I mean, if you need blood, there’s an awful lot on the floor.” As soon as he spoke the words, he knew they were wrong. “No, I didn’t mean you should eat off the floor, or anything, ah shit…”

He had turned away, frustrated and angry with himself for his tactless comment. He didn’t hear her approach—not that he ever could hear her when she wanted to be quiet, even while wearing heavy armor. Her hand on his arm almost made him jump. He covered the movement by grabbing at blanket made from skeever hide and stuffing it into a pack.

“Vorstag,” she said softly, “I… I tried already. Falmer blood, I mean. Tried to drink it. I… I couldn’t…” she shuddered. He saw the movement out of the corner of his eye and looked at her questioningly. “It was like trying to drink rotted meat.”

It was several heartbeats before he answered her, busying himself with fastening his makeshift cuirass. He left the sleeves off, deciding to leave the hammer behind, and fastened a belt to hold the sword. “Never thought of that,” he commented, “How different races of people might taste. Or animals. Suppose the skeever isn’t very appetizing either, huh?”

“I’ll be fine.” She could see where this was going, almost read his mind, the idea he was trying to get himself used to, prepare himself for, talk himself into offering.

His long fingers touched the skin at his neck, right over where his artery lay. “Ya know, if you needed to, you could…”

“Don’t!” she commanded, so forcefully he could hear the echo of her Thu’um in her voice. She must have heard it, too, even from within her helmet, as she stopped and tried to regain control of herself. It was harder than ever, her vampiric nature stirred up by all the fighting—all the blood—and the shock over finding Vorstag continuing to make her emotions—her trapped soul—want to take to wing and soar. “Please, Vorstag, don’t ever suggest it. Don’t ever think it. I won’t do that to you.”

“Do what?” he asked, “Drink a little blood? Come on, Gerhild, it’s not like you would drink so much you’d kill me…”

“You don’t know that…”

“Or does drinking from a person automatically make them a vampire?”

“No, of course not…”

“So there’s no danger…”

“There’s plenty of danger!” she cried. “I… I don’t… I don’t want to turn you into a thrall, a mindless husk of a man, good for nothing but feeding.” Her voice ended in an irritated huff. “A vampire sometimes uses a spell, to keep our victims calm so we can feed without dealing with their struggles. Repeated use of this spell can have permanent effects. I’ve seen them, the cattle, in Castle Volkihar, caged and pathetic, moaning weakly. They’ve been fed on so many times, they no longer have any will to resist, even if they know they’re being drained dry.” She looked back at him, and he could almost see her amber eyes burning through the hood and darkened helmet. “I won’t have that happen to you!”

He didn’t speak right away, but he did walk up to her, fearless, confident, strong. He put his hands on her shoulders, mindful of the spikes in her armor, and guessed where her eyes were within that darkness. “I know that won’t happen. I know, Gerhild,” he held her as she tried to shake her head and dislodge his hands, “I know you won’t do that to me. But I won’t force you if you don’t trust yourself; you know about this better than I do. So, come on,” he let go with one hand to scoop up his pack and settle it on his shoulder. “The sooner we have the Elder Scroll, the sooner we can leave this place, and the sooner we can get you that potion. Do me one favor, though,” he paused again to try to settle his helmet on with one hand, still holding on to her, as if afraid she’d slip away like smoke if he let go.

“What?” she asked warily, happy that he wasn’t going to press the issue, but fearful of what he might be asking for instead.

“Tell me how, and why, you became a vampire?”

She nodded, picking up his sword and handing it over. “That I can do, or try to, while we walk.”

“Good. Where are we going, anyway?” At last he felt certain enough of her intentions to let go of her arm.

“Southward,” she answered, gesturing with her hand towards the door. “You got everything?”

He gave a rueful sort of laugh. “Gerhild, nothing here really has any meaning for me. Well, except this,” he paused to pick up a shovel tucked away in a corner. When he saw the curious tilt of her head, he knew one of her eyebrows had just lifted itself upwards. “Long story. I’ll tell you all about it, after you finish telling me what happened to you.”

She nodded, “Fair enough. Where was I before we were interrupted?”

“Markarth. Thongvor had given you his sword, and you had the dragon fall on it.”

“Right. So, Galmar named Thongvor Jarl of Markarth. I was tired of it all, and wanted a little fresh air, so Ralof and I left the city to take a walk in the countryside…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I have to admit: I haven’t played the Dawnguard DLC; I just can’t get myself to do it. But of course I decided to have a bit of Dawnguard in my story *face palms* Needless to say, since I haven’t played it through, I know very little to absolutely nothing about Skyrim vampires… other than they’re annoying and killed Belethor on my favorite profile D”X  
> So, I asked for help. I want to shout-out to a couple of my long-time followers from that other site—Bugaboozled and Leviathan48—for their help *hugs*  
> Also, a very special thank you to NevaRyadL. He not only has a very awesomely thought out vampire story (“The Bloody Thief”—m/m warning. I just gush over poor little Anton’s emotional and moral struggles), but he was willing to answer some very pointed, and no doubt silly sounding questions of mine. I can't thank him enough!  
> Okay, so, my idea of these Skyrim vampires:  
> Their bodies are dead, so they don’t heal with potions or magic. They do heal when they drink blood (I know, Draugrs heal themselves sometimes and they’re undead; but they’re a different type of undead. Like I said, this is my interpretation).  
> They have emotions, albeit subdued, as their souls were lost when they became undead, and the romantic in me believes a lot of our emotions are from our souls, not just our brains.  
> The greater the amount of blood they consume, the more human they become. Eventually, however, the blood gets used up, like energy from food for a normal person, and they become more vampiric—hence how their vampire powers grow and how the sun hurts them more, the longer it’s been since they’ve fed. Yet the more often they feed, the more their bodies get used to being a vampire—so the stronger they get when they do revert to pure vampire form. Kinda like lifting weights: it hurts right after you’re done working out, but keep it up for a couple of weeks and you begin to see results.  
> Makes sense? Hey, I tried my best. Well, you know the drill: call it creative license and just roll with it :P


	26. We Need to Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nice, quiet day, so I'm plowing through as many chapters as possible. Only three more to go. Yippee!

Vorstag had been through a lot of shit in his life.

Aye, life in Skyrim was dangerous, and often fleeting, but he felt he had suffered more than his fair share of trials. Imprisoned. Raped. Burned. Trapped. Abducted. Presumed dead. Tortured. Blinded. Lost. Just to name a few.

He tried not to take it personally, though he had every right to feel like the gods were taking a shit on him.

Yet if anything, these little ‘lessons’ in his life only served to make him stronger. When he and his friend had been raped as young men, he had worked hard to become so physically intimidating that very few would be able to take advantage of him again. When he’d been taken by the Thalmor, he’d learned ways to protect what was important, and had grown an inner strength of endurance.

When he had ended up in Blackreach, lost and alone, buried beneath miles of earth, he’d learned how to face his deepest fears and function in spite of them. So far he had taken everything that fate had to offer, and found a way to either cope or defeat or twist it to his advantage.

But fucking Oblivion! How was he supposed to deal with this?

He walked beside Gerhild, the woman he loved, the demon he feared. He was listening to a tale spill from her lips, a spine-tingling tale of horror and monsters and life-threatening situations. She had seen Ogmund die—gods, he still couldn’t accept that his oldest friend lay dead in a crypt, his throat ripped out by vampires. After his death, she had fulfilled her promise to Ulfric. The Civil War was over, Skyrim was free from the Empire, the Thalmor were driven from the land, and in a unanimous vote—considering every Jarl either supported him or had been instated by him—Ulfric had been named High King.

But the story didn’t end there. With Skyrim at peace, Gerhild had set her sights on the vampire threat. She had joined the Dawnguard, anonymously of course, and after a few mishaps and misadventures found herself in Castle Volkihar, the very heart of the vampire stronghold. There the leader, Lord Harkon, had offered her a choice: accept his gift of vampirism, or flee like prey. He had only given her the choice—instead of killing her outright—because she had proven herself worthy by rescuing his daughter, Serana. Gerhild had chosen to join the vampires, reasoning that it would be easier to destroy them from within—she would have intimate insight into their strengths and weaknesses.

Vorstag listened, horrified, as she described the past few months, her search for these Scrolls that would help Lord Harkon destroy the sun and cast the world into eternal night. The thought chilled him, the whole world, as dark and dismal as this place. Gods, if he wasn’t so desperate to get the fuck out of there, to get above ground and back in Skyrim, he’d… he’d…

His hand twitched near the handle of his sword…

No, this is Gerhild. She may be a vampire, but she was still the woman he loved, just… misguided. He had to try to help her, to reach her, to save her. Just like she was saving him now, by helping him get out of there. “You’re not serious,” he asked her, as they neared a Dwemer tower, testing her motives. “You’re not going to help him plunge all of Nirn into darkness, are you?”

“Of course not,” she waved his concern aside, never seeing the nervous shifting from foot to foot. “I’m going to destroy the bow, but after I use it as bait. Pretending to give the bow to Lord Harkon will make him lower his defenses; he’ll be too focused on his plans to notice the Dawnguard attacking, at least at first. When he finally realizes he’s under attack, he’ll be distracted again and not notice that I’m poised to destroy him and the bow.”

“You sure about that?” he pressed. “He’s a stronger vampire than you.”

“Maybe,” she shrugged, unconcerned. The door to the tower was locked, so she knelt and pulled out a pair of lock picks. “But he doesn't know that I’m the Dragonborn. And no one, not Man nor Mer nor Draugr, possibly not even any dragon, is stronger than I and my Thu’um.”

“Including Alduin?”

The lock gave way, and she turned to smile up at him over her shoulder. At least, he was fairly sure she was smiling from within her helmet. “That’s the idea. Lord Harkon won’t be counting on my Dragonborn nature, and Alduin won’t be counting on my vampire nature. With any luck, I’ll have defeated both of them and assured Skyrim’s continued peace by the end of the year.”

“What then?” he asked softly, walking into the tower behind her. Immediately there was a lift, activated by a lever.

“Hmm?” she hummed, pulling the lever once he was beside her. The floor beneath their feet rattled a moment, then the walls began to slide downwards as they were lifted upwards.

“After Harkon is destroyed, and Alduin is killed, what then?” He fiddled with his leg joint. It had been sticking off and on while they had been walking, and he took the time to give it a swift punch to unstick it.

“Norilar,” she said as if it was a foregone conclusion. “Wanna come with when I hunt him down?”

Vorstag swallowed. There were too many emotions and memories associated with that name. He couldn’t think clearly when his mind was full of pain and humiliation and despair. He set them aside for now; he had to focus on saving Gerhild first. “That’s not what I meant. Look at you, Gerhild. Look.” He grabbed her shoulder, making her face him, knowing she couldn’t get away while the lift was moving. “You willingly became a vampire, the very thing that killed our friend Ogmund.”

“I did what I had to do,” her voice was dangerous and low.

“You had to become your enemy? A monster? Tell me, would you become a dragon to defeat Alduin?”

“If that’s what it took, then that’s what I’ll do! You don’t understand, Vorstag, this isn’t easy!” She pulled out of his grasp and took half a step back, all the room she had, unwilling to see his point of view. “All that I have to do, all that fate has in store for me, it’s too much for one person, one mortal person. So I made a few sacrifices, a few deals I’m not proud of. I can no longer afford pride. The fate of all existence is riding on my shoulders, and I will do what I have to—what must be done—to finish this! I have already freed Skyrim from the Empire and the Thalmor. I will destroy Lord Harkon. I will destroy Alduin. I do not care at what cost!” The lift stopped, and she pushed open the door and stomped through what looked like an old campsite. Her anger kept her from seeing her surroundings, her only thought to get away from Vorstag before she did something she would regret.

“Look what it’s done to you," he said gently, also ignoring the camp and chasing after her. “You’re not a Nord any longer, not human. You’ve lost your way, your reason for doing things.”

“Isn’t it enough that I’m doing what needs to be done? Stuhn’s Shield!” She only turned back to face him when she had put a reasonably safe distance between them. “What else am I supposed to do, let Lord Harkon kill me? Let him destroy the sun? Maybe that’ll stop Alduin.”

“Gerhild…”

“Maybe I should sit back and let the vampires and dragons battle it out between them, and then step in and take care of any survivors.”

“Gerhild…”

“Of course, that would cost the lives of countless innocent bystanders, so that idea’s no good.”

“Gerhild!”

“What!” she barked.

“Look,” he said, slowly and deliberately, pointing over her shoulder. She turned and, through an archway, saw a chamber that would have taken her breath away, if she had any breath.

“By the Nine,” she whispered reverently.

“You think this is where the Elder Scroll is?” he asked, walking around her to enter the room first. It was large and circular, almost spherical. On either wall was a ramp that led up to a platform directly opposite the door. But what grasped their attention was the contraption that took up the main area of the room. Hanging from the ceiling was a series of lenses, each of them held and positioned with arms of golden Dwemer metal. Blue-green light filled the room, shining down though some unknowable distance from the surface, refracted and refocused through the tinted lenses.

Gerhild slung her pack off her shoulder, rummaging inside and removing the Lexicon. “Has to be,” she decided. She started up one of the ramps and reached the top of the back wall where she found a control panel. There was a receptacle that was the perfect size and shape for the Lexicon. She put the cube in there and stood back, looking puzzled at all the buttons before her. “Now what?”

Vorstag didn’t answer her, not that she expected an answer, so she started pushing buttons at random, hoping something would happen. It did, the buttons controlling the arms which moved the lenses around the contraption, but the Elder Scroll remained hidden.

“Allow me,” he said at last, having come up the other ramp. “I think I’ve got this figured out.”

“How?” she asked, and he pushed a book at her in answer, his focus on the buttons before him. She turned the slim volume over in her hands, amazed and chagrined at the same time. “A journal? Who’s Drokt?” she read the name on the inside page.

“The poor skeleton down there,” he nodded to where he had found the journal. “It was his campsite we passed through in that other room. He died here, obsessed with trying to figure out how to operate this machine. Only thing is, he didn’t have a blank Lexicon, like you do.” He hit the button on the highest pedestal three times, and the Lexicon opened up. He pressed another button to the left twice, and the lenses began moving.

“I forgot you can read,” she said softly, idly drifting through the pages.

“Aye, Ogmund…” his voice cracked and he had to swallow, “I had Ogmund teach me. I always wondered, how did you know I couldn’t read?”

“The way you’d lean away whenever I handed you a note to read yourself, but you’d lean in and nod whenever I pointed out a particular word. You have a lot of tells, Vorstag.”

“Tells?” Light filled the chamber, the lenses focusing the brightest rays through the Lexicon.

“Aye, tells, little bits of body language that tell what you’re thinking. Kinda like how I thought you were gay.”

“What?”

He turned away from the machine to stare at her.

She felt his eyes on her and looked up. “For the longest time, I thought you preferred the dagger to the sheath.”

“How…? Why…? I’m not…”

“Oh, I know now that you’re not,” she waved it aside, lifting her face upwards, watching the light fill the Lexicon with knowledge. “But when we first met, I thought you might be, and your body language sort of confirmed my suspicions.”

His lips pressed into a thin line as he set his jaw, looking away from her, too. “Because of my lisp, right? Everyone fucking judges me because of that damn lisp!”

“That was one thing," she admitted, “But you know me; I don’t jump to conclusions that quickly. No, there was also the inordinate amount of effort you put into honing your body, building muscle and showing it off.”

“I’m a sellsword,” he countered, crossing his arms and pouting, inadvertently flexing his muscles, “I need to look tough and menacing, or I might not get hired.”

“And then there was Argis, the matching tattoos, the way you kept blushing around him, and the story of you two in Riften. You did admit he preferred men…”

“I… now… wait… just… aargh!” He put a hand to his forehead, like he was getting a headache. When had this conversation gone awry? “I blush. A lot. I know it, I can’t help it, it just happens. And as for Argis, aye, he prefers men, and after Cidhna Mine, when we ended up in Riften, fine, we stayed in the same room. And he offered, because he thought I might be interested. But I wasn’t. I’m not. We never… did that. Maybe I blush around him, because the tattoo story is embarrassing, and because I think about his offer sometimes, not that I would take him up on it, but just because I don’t like to see him so lonely. But I prefer women!” He looked back down at her, slamming his fist onto the last button. The lenses moved out of the way, and the container holding the Lexicon lowered towards them again. “I love you.”

Gerhild was poleaxed. She stood there, the Dwemer contraption whirring and whirling, the container lowering, the Lexicon opened and filled now with the Elder Scroll, woven out of the ether. But the most amazing thing she had ever experience was standing in front of her with the most charming scowl on his features. “That’s the first time you’ve ever said it.”

“I… what… no… maybe… but you knew it.”

“No,” she shook her head. “I never realized it. Not until after I thought you dead.” During his stunned silence, she turned and retrieved the Scroll and the Lexicon, now ruined, and stuffed both into her pack. “All that time we had together… Why did you never say anything? You knew we loved each other, didn’t you? So why would you just sit there and not say anything? Why would you waste so much time? Why didn’t you tell me, explain to me, what that stupid indigestion I was feeling really was?”

He took a deep breath, his shoulders sagging within his slipshod armor, and pulled his helmet off his head. He rifled a hand through his long, lanky brown hair before answering. “Would you have believed me if I told you? No, you needed to discover it for yourself, or you would never have been able to accept it. So I kept silent and waited. And hoped.”

Gerhild stared at him, saw the sincerity in his eyes, and knew it had cost him to sit back and wait and hope she would come around. She had been too blind, too stubborn to realize the truth in time. But he could’ve given her a hint at least. Just like she had given him hints, the whole time he was blind and she pretended to be a stranger. Aye, she knew exactly what he had gone through. “Just like I did to you.”

“What?” he asked softly, watching her as she removed her helmet and hood. Her eyes were an even brighter amber, her features more angular, as if the vampire part of her was getting stronger. She didn’t seem to notice, her focus on trying to find the words to explain.

“Stuhn’s Shield,” she moaned, tugging off her gauntlets just to have something to do while she thought of what to say. “Vorstag, I was the Ebony Warrior.” She waited, watching his face, hating the remembered fear and pain from that time stain his features. And she feared she was only going to make it worse. “When Vilkas came to Whiterun, with news of your death, with proof, I couldn’t accept it. I… I didn’t want to live, not without you. I tricked Vilkas, got him so mad while we were sparring that he lost control and ran me through. I was hoping to die, but I didn’t, stupid luck. Tripped on a shield at the last possible moment and his sword missed my heart.

“When I recovered, I realized how wrong it had been to try to make Vilkas kill me—so he would suffer from guilt—all because he delivered the news of your death. I knew I needed to make it up to him, to everyone. I started by volunteering to find out what happened to Eorlund’s son, Thorald. He’d gone missing around the time I was… indisposed. It wasn’t really a matter for the Companions, even if Eorlund worked so closely with them, because the Thalmor were involved. After a few discreet inquiries, I discovered Thorald was at Northwatch Keep. I went there to rescue him,” she reached up a hand to touch his cheek, so warm and ruddy with life, “But I found you.”

It was all there, in his expression, the remembered pain and fear and dehumanizing Norilar had put him through. And now the knowledge that she had tricked him, that she had seen him at his lowest point, and kept silent…

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, the hurt and anger and betrayal in the forefront. “I was blind, Gerhild, I couldn’t know who you were. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I couldn’t,” she shook her head, wishing she could produce the saliva necessary to swallow that damn lump in her throat. “Thorald and Avulstein knew me from Whiterun; I couldn’t let them know it was Lady Gerhild within the ebony armor. They know now, but that’s a different matter. I… I couldn’t tell them then who I was, and I didn’t expect to find you there, so I couldn’t tell you without telling them. And after they left…”

This was hard, so very hard, all the more so because she needed him to understand so badly. Ah, gods, there was so much he needed to understand, that her words tumbled over themselves as she tried to explain. “Vorstag, I… I wanted to tell you… I tried… but you were so hurt… so adamant about not… not being a burden to anyone who knew you… I thought… I hoped… after you got your sight back… if it worked… things would be different… you’d feel different… you’d come to the Ragged Flagon and see me and then… we’d talk and… and…” her words stopped, her bottom lip trembling so hard she had to bite it.

“Aye, I remember what I said. I meant it, at the time—I didn’t want to be a burden to you or anyone. After my sight was restored, well, I wasn’t sure what to do. I meant to find the Ebony Warrior and work off my debt to her—you—whatever. Only, things didn’t work out that way,” he finished lamely with a shrug, closing his eyes and pressing his thin lips together. He paused for half a heartbeat before he leaned his forehead against hers. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him, hearing the sound of his armor clanking against hers as he returned the embrace.

“After Riften, I thought I lost you,” she whispered, trying to ignore the pulsing artery close to her lips, “Again. I couldn’t find you, no matter how hard I tried. You had simply… vanished. I figured, either you were unable, or unwilling to come to me. Whichever one it was didn’t matter, the end result was the same. You were out of my life. So I had to go on. I had to do those things I promised to help others with, like end the war for Ulfric. And find a way to defeat Alduin. When I ended up in Castle Volkihar, and Lord Harkon gave me the opportunity to join him, I did. I didn’t think it would matter. I mean, after I defeated the vampires and Alduin, maybe hunted down Norilar, there would be nothing else for me. Whatever dreams I might have once entertained—even subconsciously—no longer mattered. Not without you. But now…” She was choking, not needing to breathe, unable to cry, but feeling the emotions from her deadened heart come alive. “I’m so sorry, Vorstag…”

He knew how deep her emotions ran, how strong and overwhelming they were and how badly she feared losing control. Always she tried to keep herself—her heart and soul—subdued within a prison of ice. He had managed to break through that barrier once, and though she had rebuilt it in his absence, it seemed he was breaking through again. Even though she truly was dead, or undead, or whatever—her strong emotions still clung to her like a miasma, making her dead body wheeze and cough as she tried to cry without being able to form the tears.

Vorstag endured the dry storm, not out of any sense of responsibility or duty, but out of love. Even if her heart no longer beat, even if her lungs only breathed to give her voice, even if her body was dead to his touch—he still loved her. He held her, and when the mumbling turned to moans he kissed her hair. When she grew overwhelmed and her knees buckled, he supported her weight and lowered them both to sit on the floor. When her body forcibly trembled, unable to express her strong emotions and she digressed into dry hysterics, he cradled her as tenderly as if she was a mountain flower caught in a hurricane.

Slowly Gerhild came to her senses, finding herself sheltered within his arms. She smiled, a little rueful, and murmured, “I haven’t done that for a long time.”

“Done what?” he asked quietly. His thoughts had been drifting while she lay, silent and still like a corpse, and he had barely kept himself from starting at her sudden words, even spoken so softly. He knew she needed him now more than ever, however, so he schooled his features and reactions, ignored his primal fear of vampires, and kept his love for her foremost in his thoughts.

“Lost control,” she sighed. “Let my emotions… just…” she shrugged. “I thought they were dead, or at least dormant, especially now that I’m undead. But around you, I don’t know, I feel safe. Protected. Loved. I know I can lose control, and you won’t judge me or use what I say to your own advantage.” She affected a stern look. “I don’t know whether to thank you, or blame you.”

He smiled his most charming smile, and pecked her nose with a kiss. “You’re welcome.”

She stared at him, once more losing control of her emotions, and eventually had to give in to the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “So,” she sat up, more to distract herself than because she was uncomfortable. She truly didn’t trust herself that close to his neck. “What happened to you? In Riften. I know you won a drinking contest against a Breton mage, and the two of you left Riften together, but your trail just vanished. Stopped.”

“Stopped?”

“Aye. I tracked your footprints; you have very large feet, even for a Nord…”

“Thanks.”

She missed his sarcasm. “I followed your track down the road outside Riften, but suddenly your footprints stopped. There were no signs of a different mode of transportation. No horse. No wagon wheel. Your prints just ended mid-stride.”

He took a deep breath, blowing it out forcefully. “Don’t know. Honest,” he pulled away, throwing up his hands in mock defense as she made a fist and pretended she was going to hit him. His smile faded, though, as he continued, “I left the Face Sculptor, intending to head to the Ragged Flagon, but I didn’t know my way because, well, I was blind just a few hours before, wasn’t I? Never saw how to find my way through the tunnels. Anyway, after a while, I found myself outside by the canal and,” he shrugged, “I just wanted to look at the sky, the sun, ya know? So I climbed the stairs, and there was this tavern, and some coin in my pocket…”

“Aye,” her eyes narrowed only slightly, knowing of his love for mead.

“…and inside, I ordered one drink, just to bolster myself before heading back downstairs again…”

“Right.”

“…only this Breton says I don’t got what it takes, to keep up with him, drink for drink, ya know?”

“Insulting.”

“And so he takes out this bottle, and we each take a swig. It was pretty potent stuff, but I managed one more swig than he could, and won.”

He was positively beaming, and it was all she could do not to roll her eyes. “Imagine that.”

He had stopped, though, and the smile faded again, somewhat sheepishly.

“Well,” she prompted, “What happened next? Why did you leave Riften?”

“I… ah… well… you see… I…”

“What?” she dragged the word out, exasperated.

“Idonrember.” The words came out in a rush, and she had to ask for clarification. He squared his shoulders and, mustering as much dignity as he could, admitted, “I don’t remember. One moment, I’m drinking with Sam…”

“Sam?” she asked.

“Aye, that was his name, Sam Gwee-something. Anyway, one moment I’m drinking with Sam, the next, I wake up with the biggest hangover of my life, in the Temple of Dibella in Markarth, no pants, slaughter fish scales and juniper branches everywhere, a mammoth tusk leaning against a statue kinda phallus-like, and a priestess who says I’ve defecated the Temple.”

She blinked at him. “Don’t you mean desecrated?”

“No,” he rubbed at the back of his neck, glancing away, “I meant what I said.”

One delicate golden eyebrow rose.

“So, I ran. Out of the Temple, trying to avoid getting arrested, ya know. Saw Ogmund,” again that damnable lump threatened to choke him, “And he gave me a pair of pants. Gods, Gerhild, I wanted to tell him who I was, but I couldn’t, ya know?”

“I think, on some level, he knew,” she assured him, remembering her conversation with him.

“I left Markarth. Wandered for a bit. Finally found this farmer who needed some help, in exchange for food and a place to sleep. Well, these soldiers came one day—Imperials looking for ‘volunteers’ for their army—and I hid until nightfall. Helped the conscripts get away and ran with them. Got separated, and by morning found myself with the farmer’s shovel,” he nodded at the tool sitting off to the side, “At some pond in the middle of nowhere. And there was Sam, saying he was disappointed in me. Me! I told him to leave me alone, and he said some strange stuff. Anyway, there was this flash of light, and the next thing I knew, I was in… what did you call it… Blackreach.

“First thing, I came across this group of Falmer fighting a Dwarven centurion. The Falmer lost to the centurion; the centurion lost to me.” He tapped his chest. “Made some good use out of the scraps.”

“That explains the armor.”

“I was… scared. I’ll admit it. You know I don’t like being trapped underground.” He might’ve heard her murmured empathy, but his words continued so quickly he probably hadn’t noticed. “But there wasn’t much I could do about it. I mean, sure, I tried to find a way out, checked a couple of buildings, but they were all locked. Even tried climbing the rocks along the walls of the cavern. But there was no way out that I could find,” he swallowed loudly, “So instead of giving in to my fears, I focused on doing what I could. Got myself a couple of weapons, a place to stay that was free of Falmer, found a source of food, and… well… survived. Every once in a while I’d set out, looking for an exit, but most places were either locked, or so full of Falmer I knew I couldn’t get through on my own.” He nudged his shoulder into hers, “Then you came along, and now we’re getting out.”

“Aye,” she returned his nudge a little distractedly, something in what he said earlier tickling at her memory. “Wait, go back to Riften. What was this guy’s name?”

“Who? The Breton?” At her nod, he shrugged. “Don’t quite remember. Sam something.”

“Sam what?” she pressed.

He thought about it, trying to remember, but he had been very drunk at the time. “Sam… Sam… Sam Gwee… Gween… Gweeve…”

“Sam Gween?” she repeated, sounded astonished or shocked, he couldn’t tell which, though her voice did rise in volume as she continued. “Sam-gween? Sanguine?”

The realization finally hit him and his jaw dropped.

“Stuhn’s Shield, Vorstag, you had a run-in with the Daedric Prince Sanguine!”

“…fuck…” His eyes were wide, like an elk’s eyes in the torchlight.

“You should be lucky you got away with your soul…”

“Fuck!”

She was astonished at his vehement outburst. “What is it?” she asked, instantly alert, almost losing control. She was more vampire than human right then, thanks to the lack of blood, and it would be all too easy to change into that monster. But if there was danger near them…

“I… I’m sorry… it’s my fault,” he said as softly as he had shouted a moment before.

One delicate eyebrow rose, as she stared at him in confusion. A moment before she had been on the verge of turning into a vampire lord right in front of him, and his sudden change in mood left her uncertain as to what to do. “What is?”

“It makes sense now, what he said,” Vorstag continued, as if he hadn't heard her. “Sam… Sanguine… whatever… he said, well, a bunch of stuff that sounded like gibberish. But I understand now.” He took her by the shoulders, mindful of the spikes on her armor, and elaborated. “I exchanged my fate for yours. Back in Solstheim, when you went into the Black Book to fight Miraak, you were gone for so long, and I prayed. I prayed to Stuhn, that he would protect you and keep you safe from Hermaeus Mora. But I knew Stuhn was the god of ransom, so I offered my fate in exchange for keeping your fate clear of Daedra.”

“That… that was…”

“He did it,” he continued over her words, one hand now stroking her pale gray cheek. “I remember you saying that something or someone stood between you and Hermaeus Mora and kept him from taking control over your fate. That must’ve been Stuhn, answering my prayer. And that left me open for any Daedra who came along. Sam/Sanguine said he was the first to get to me. He challenged me to a drinking duel, fitting for the Prince of Debauchery,” he gave half a laugh, as if he finally got the joke, “And got me so drunk I couldn’t remember all the crazy shit we did. He said I was supposed to try to figure it out, only I didn’t play his game. So when he finally caught up with me, he sent me here, knowing how much I hate being underground. I bet he never thought you’d come here and find me.” He practically shone he was smiling so brightly.

She blinked again. “Vorstag…”

“What?”

She turned away, “Never mind.”

“What?!”

She looked back at him, “That is the single most… stupid… foolhardy… inane… aargh!” She shook her head at his wide-eyed, innocent expression. No, he wasn’t remorseful that he had done something so idiotic as to exchange his fate for hers. And it was hard to stay mad at him—what was done was done—when he looked so boyishly proud, damn him.

A thought occurred to her, and her brow grew a tiny wrinkle as she spoke it out loud, “But it does explain something else. I, er, had my own run-in with a different Daedric Prince, only Nocturnal wouldn’t have anything to do with me, said it wasn’t allowed. I was kinda hurt at the time, but now…” she tilted her head, “I guess your bargain worked; Stuhn has been protecting me from Daedra. But now that you’ve had your little adventure with Sanguine, hopefully Stuhn will protect you, too, because I love you.”

That was the first time he’d heard those words from her. As a sort of miniature celebration, he kissed her lips. The sensation was odd, and in the back of his mind he kept thinking of how he was kissing a corpse, but he loved her, damn it! “That would be nice. There’s enough shit to deal with as it is.”

“Aye,” she agreed sadly, wondering how they would work through the mess she made by becoming a vampire. Well, one thing for certain: they wouldn’t find the answer to that problem sitting on their asses at the bottom of a Dwemer ruin. “Speaking of which, we should get going.”

“Gerhild,” he said as they stood, his hand reaching out to take hold of hers before she could put her gauntlet back on. His voice was uneasy, like he was working himself up to performing an unpleasant task. She automatically dreaded the next words coming out of his mouth. “Listen, whatever happens, whatever our future holds, we’re gonna face it together, from now on.”

She turned away.

“I mean it.” His other hand forced her face upwards, and he pointedly waited until she lifted her burning amber eyes up to his soft brown. “I’m not gonna leave you again, even if I have to become a vampire…”

“No!” she shouted, pulling out of his grasp.

“I won’t lose you…”

“Nor I, you,” she affirmed. “And becoming a vampire would do it.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re already a vampire, and immortal, but I’m still human. I’ll grow old and die, or be killed in a battle—gods willing. But you won’t grow old, and it’s very hard to kill a vampire.”

“Not impossible.”

“Gerhild, if I become a vampire too, then we won’t have to worry about that. We’ll be immortal, together…”

“Vorstag, no,” she said firmly and clearly, feeling like she was scolding a child or commanding a dog. “Listen to me. When you become a vampire, you lose your soul. I don’t know where it goes, but I do know it’s gone. Maybe it can reach an afterlife of a sort, Sovngarde even. But I don’t know.” She stepped even closer to him, her nose less than an inch from his, her lips fanning his with her dead breath. “I won’t take that chance with you. Live. Live your life, for both of us. Die in battle if you must, or live a long life with me and die of old age. But live. And after your death, let your soul go to Sovngarde. Hopefully, you’ll find me there one day.”

His eyes, always and ever the most expressive part of his self, were full of hurt. “I’d rather cease to exist altogether, than be in Sovngarde without you.” He paused to press his lips against hers again.

“Don’t say things like that,” she murmured, pulling away slightly, “Besides, I… well… I sort of… still have my soul… in a manner of speaking…”

“What?”

She winced at the alarm and shock in his voice, an abrupt change from the determined hurt of a moment before. Why were things always awkward and complicated between them? Deciding there probably wasn’t an answer, she started to explain.

“When Lord Harkon changed me into a vampire, he had to kill me, right? That meant my soul would leave my body. Only, it didn’t. I kinda have a surplus of souls, ya know. I… er… I switched, at the moment of my death, I switched my soul with one of the dragon souls. The dragon soul was released, and my soul is still inside me, sort of, in that place with the dragon souls I’ve absorbed. I can still feel it, sometimes, lost and confused, unable to understand what happened, the other souls brushing against it, through it…” She stopped to shudder. “It’s feeling stronger, ever since I found you again. But it’s still not a part of me. I’m still dead, I mean. So, that’s why I don’t want you to become a vampire. You don't have any extra souls to lose instead of your own. Live your life, Vorstag, and after you’re gone, after my un-death has ended, hopefully my soul will finally be released to join yours in Sovngarde.”

He was so still for so long, she thought perhaps he had died of shock. Then he suddenly let go of her, shaking his head and mumbling something to himself. He stuffed his helmet on his head without missing a step.

“What?” she asked, following behind him as he walked back down the ramp. She had to juggle a little, her hands full of her pack and helmet and gauntlets, as she finished putting her armor back on.

“That… that… that has to be the epitome of female logic! Only a woman could make sense out of that mess. Don’t become a vampire just because I am, because I didn’t lose my soul, though I’m still dead! Bah!” He pushed through the only other door in the chamber, and pounded his feet down the long hallway beyond.

“It makes perfect sense,” she argued, almost skipping to keep up with his long, forceful strides.

He merely shook his head, stopping when he came to a closed gate with a strange receptacle in front of it. It took three deep breaths before he could find his voice, though his tone was not the easy-going Vorstag she knew and loved. “Would you open the door already? I’d like to leave this place.”

She brought out the Attunement Sphere and held it over the receptacle, pausing to look at him through her eyeless helmet, and ask, “Are you mad at me?”

He let out an explosive breath, but had to shake his head. “No, I suppose not. I just don’t understand you some days. But I do love you, even if you drive me to distraction.”

“Ha!” she scoffed, using the Attunement Sphere to unlock the gate, “ **You** drive **me** to distraction. All those pouty, kicked-puppy-dog looks when you’re feelings get hurt…”

“I don’t pout,” he objected, crossing his arms over his chest as they stepped into the elevator.

“Like now,” she smirked within her helmet as they began to ascend. “Then there’s your insatiable thirst for mead…”

“Gods, do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had anything to drink other than water? I don’t suppose you have any on you?”

“What for?” she taunted him, “Vampires don’t eat or drink, unless it’s blood, that is. And see, you’re distracting me again. Oh, there’s your abilities as a bard. You can sing, and dance, and tell stories…”

“I get the idea.”

The elevator chose that moment to break into the open, leaving the endless night of Blackreach far beneath them, and reaching the expanse of Skyrim spreading out in every direction. Both of them forgot about their conversation, but for entirely different reasons.

“By the Nine,” Vorstag sighed, pressing his hands and face to the bars to look out over the area. They were on the side of a mountain, the slopes covered in white, with more white falling in swirling flakes. The sun was hidden behind clouds, but there was enough light for him to tell it was full day, and to make his eyes water, so unused to the brightness. A cold wind whipped between the bars, setting his skin ablaze with gooseflesh. He inhaled a huge lungful of air, reveling in the feel of the cold stinging from within. “Looks like we’ve come up just in time for a snowstorm.” He wiped the tears from his eyes, turning to look at her, his smile nearly splitting his face in two. It froze faster than the dropping temperature.

“Gerhild!” he cried, dropping down beside her huddled form. She was kneeling, her body crumpling over his arms as he took hold of her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“The sun!” she gasped. “I can feel it. So weak. It’s been too long since I’ve last fed, too many wounds, too little blood. Help me, Vorstag, please, help me…” her voice faded to a whisper.

He swallowed, nodding, even though she couldn’t see it. “What can I do? Tell me what to do!”

“We need to go back down,” she said softly, her head lolling on her shoulders, “Beneath the earth. Earth and stone will protect me from the sun…”

Anything but that, he wanted to say, his earlier joy evaporated in the face of her troubles and his fears. She needed to go back to Blackreach until nightfall, and he never wanted to return. He looked over at the lever, but he couldn’t make himself reach out for it. Damn it, he had just managed to make it out of that accursed place. Was he supposed to give his freedom up so quickly, after only one brief glimpse? Feeling her dead weight in his arms, he knew the answer.

He set his jaw and tried the lever.

Nothing happened. He set her down and tried it again, thinking maybe it had to be reset, but the elevator remained silent. Even a good hard kick didn’t seem to help. “Damn! The elevator isn’t working. We’ll have to try something else.” He looked around, thinking he had spotted what might have been a campsite nearby. “I think I see a tent. Don’t know if anyone’s there, but…”

She didn’t answer, other than a somewhat feeble squeeze of her hand around his wrist. He lifted her up, didn’t even bother to try to get her to walk, and carried her—armor and pack and all—towards the campsite.

“Hello the camp!” he shouted at the top of his lungs as he staggered against the wind and the snow. His arms were aching by the time they reached the tent, from carrying her as well as from the cold, and he barely paused as he pushed his way inside. “I said, hello. Is anyone here?”

The inside of the tent was deserted, but it was also cozy and well protected from the weather. He set her down on an old bedroll, the blanket frozen stiff and the straw long since rotted away. He supposed it might have been the surface campsite of Drokt, the poor skeleton they found in the Dwemer chamber. It didn’t matter, as it obviously wasn’t being used, and they needed to use it.

“Gerhild,” he called to her, removing her helmet. He hadn’t quite gotten used to her vampiric appearance—like her eyes—but with the helmet removed he saw the daylight was causing an even more disastrous affect. Her cheekbones were raised, the hollows more gaunt, her nose scrunched upwards like a bat, her skin gray with a thin red line vertically dissecting her mouth. If anyone saw her now, if anyone happened to stumble into this tent, they’d know her for what she was and kill her on sight. “Gerhild, is it…” he spoke softly, unsure if he wanted to know the answer, “Is the sunlight hurting you?”

Her eyes fluttered open, barely a squint, but she gave a weak shake of her head. “…no… just weak… so very weak… can’t… can’t…”

He pressed his thin lips into an even thinner line. He could barely make out her words, more reading lips than hearing them. And her eyelids seemed too heavy to keep open. She was so weak, and getting weaker, and turning more vampirish before his eyes…

He’d had enough. It would be best to get it over with before he gave himself too much time to think about it. “There’s nothing else to do.”

She wanted to argue, she knew she should, but the sunlight was so strong, as was the vampire part of her, and her human part so weak, she could only manage a feeble, “…no…”

“You need to feed,” he said stubbornly. “You can’t go on like this.” He was removing enough of his armor to expose his neck. Then he laid down next to her, leaning over her slightly, but keeping his weight off of her.

“…Vorstag…”

“It’ll be alright,” he assured her, trying to keep his heartbeat from racing. “You’ll drink only what you need to help you handle the sun. And it’ll only be this one time. Trust me, Gerhild. Even if you don’t trust yourself, trust me.”

It was too much. She could smell his heartbeat, feel the bright red fluid gushing through his veins, hear his fear and anxiety. And his courage. She had none, reduced to the craven creature who would willingly feed on human blood. Yet a part of her clung to sanity, a part that grew smaller the closer his neck came to her lips. She filled her lungs with air, but could only manage a cryptic whisper of warning, “…don’t struggle…”

His flesh was there, warm and flushed, the skin quivering with his pulse. Her lips were poised directly over the artery, ready to give him the kiss of death. No, she wasn’t going to kill him. She was only going to drink a little, only a few swallows, only enough to survive the daylight. Her lips parted, her fangs touching his skin, grazing over the area. She felt him shudder, whether from the cold or the thought of what they were about to do, but she was beyond being able to help herself.

He knew he was being foolish. He had no idea—none whatsoever—what it would be like to be bitten by a vampire. And Gerhild was more vampire now than Nord; he could see it in her actions even if he ignored her features. He was literally putting his life in her hands. His life, his blood, his fate.

He felt her lips on his skin, so cold like ice, numbing and chilling him at the same time. He pondered her words, the warning not to struggle, and steeled his resolve. She needed this. She needed him to be strong, to give her some of his blood, and know when to stop. The feel of her fangs rasping across his neck made him shudder, and he clenched his hand so tightly his fingernails punctured his skin. He focused on that, on the pain in the palm of his hand, and tried to ignore the pressure of her fangs as they pushed down, his skin stretching around the tips until with a pop she was through.

There was pain, a mere moment’s worth, and a little surprise over the situation, that this was actually happening to him—to them. Then the fangs were gone, removed from the holes they had made. Instead he could feel her lips moving, slow and almost sensual, as her whole mouth worked to suckle blood from his body.

So much for focusing on his hand. His mind was totally absorbed in the moment, in the strong movements of her jaw, the stroking of her tongue, the kneading of her fingers now tangled in his hair. Briefly he noted to himself it was funny that the puncture wounds were numb, but everything else seemed hypersensitive. He closed his eyes—he couldn’t see much more than the canvas of the tent fluttering in the wind anyway. That only accentuated the sensations, burning like fire, marking him, branding him, as her own property.

Her hands tugged, and his neck stretched a little further into an uncomfortable angle. It was getting hard for him to breathe, his head beginning to spin with lack of oxygen and lack of blood. He put his hand on her shoulder, giving it a little shove. He wouldn’t struggle, but he did need her to understand that she had probably had enough by now.

She continued to drink, a little trickle escaping her mouth to drip down his neck. By the Nine, this was awkward. He couldn’t fight, for whatever reason she had felt it necessary to warn him about that, but he had to make her stop before he passed out. He felt the room tilt, felt himself slip over the edge and fall into that endlessly spiraling abyss.

His hand on the back of her neck, he managed to choke out, “Gerhild, my love…” before he was lost in the spinning void.

The next thing he became aware of was a gentle coolness, like when Gerhild would use a healing spell on him.

He opened his eyes, slowly, the light dim and the shapes before him out of focus. Some sort of sound was penetrating his ears, but he couldn’t make sense of it. He blinked, and the shape in front of him began to clear. He saw pale skin, smooth and soft, surrounding a set of blood red lips that were moving. Just above and to either side of the lips were two flushed cheeks. There was a pair of amber eyes glowing like embers near the top of the shape. All of this framed by dark gold hair.

“Vorstag! Can you hear me?”

“Gerhild,” he sighed, reaching up to kiss her lips, so red, so inviting, so alive.

She pulled away from him. “Stop that!”

“You’re so warm,” he hummed, his hands on her shoulders. She had removed her armor, and he ran his hands down her bare arms, “Like you’re back with the living.”

“And you’re the one looking like a corpse. Oh, Vorstag!” she slapped his arms aside, but the irritation was beginning to leave her words. “You’re such a male.” She relented enough to kiss him again, but when he tried to sit up she kept him lying down with a hand on his chest. “Don’t move. You’re still very weak.”

“What happened?”

“You were stupid. Again.” She leaned away, and he turned his head to follow her. She had a small rabbit nearby, or what had been a rabbit. Its fur had been singed off, and the outer layer of skin was blackened, but when she pulled off a haunch the meat came away from the bone easily enough. “Here, eat this. I know, I know, I’m not the greatest cook, and there’s no garlic, but it’s edible… I think.”

He realized he was ravenous. He took the meat from her hand with both of his and dove into it, tearing away the skin and sinking his teeth through the slightly overcooked flesh. “’s good,” he said around a mouthful. He did swallow before he continued, “You forget, I've been dining on nothing but skeever and mushrooms for months. This is heavenly.” He dove back into the meat.

She leaned away a little, allowing him to roll over onto his side and reach for more of the charred rabbit himself. She watched him, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, and commented, “I’ll take this as a compliment to my cooking.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. This is the toughest, driest, most under-flavored rabbit I’ve ever eaten.” He stopped to belch. “And you’re welcome.”

They laughed. The sound was full of love and relief and hope. He slowed down his eating long enough to say, “You do look almost normal.”

A tiny furrow of irritation grew between her eyes. “That’s because I drank too much blood from you. You’re the one who’s gray and weak, now. Why did you do that? You could’ve just taken me back down to Blackreach, ya know. You didn’t have to give me your blood.”

He shook his head and finished chewing before he answered. “Couldn’t. Elevator didn’t work. And it was early in the day, so there’d be hours of sunlight for you to suffer through. And I didn’t know; it looked like it was hurting you, like maybe you might get so weak, you’d just fall asleep and never wake up or something.” He dropped his gaze back to the meat in his hands, his appetite suddenly diminished.

“I had the same fear,” she admitted softly, “When I came to my senses and found you beneath me, your neck in my mouth, your blood inside me. You were passed out, and so gray-looking, and… I thought I’d taken too much. Especially when I couldn’t get you to wake up.”

“How long have I been out?”

“Twelve hours or so,” she answered. “Enough time for the storm to pass, and for me to hunt and cook this rabbit, and lose ten years sitting and worrying about you.”

“Good thing you’re immortal, then.”

“This isn’t a joke!” she snapped. “I’m serious, Vorstag, I really could have killed you. I was so starved for blood, I was afraid, if I started, I wouldn’t—I couldn’t make myself stop.”

He wiped his fingers on the blanket before he reached out to touch her arm, realizing part of the reason she felt so warm was because he was so cool. “You did stop. I’m alive.” He lifted a tear in her sleeveless tunic and saw her unmarked skin beneath, “You’re healed. Everything worked out.”

She shook her head. “This time. What about next time?” When her face turned towards his, he saw her eyes fill with bloody tears. “I can’t do this. I can’t trust myself around you, if I get too injured or if it’s been too long since I’ve fed and there are no Potions of Blood and…”

He put his hand to her face, in part to stop her words, in part to wipe away the tears before she saw how bloody they were. He struggled to sit up, felt a little more confident when the tent only gave one funny little lurch, and put both hands on her face. “Listen to me. Listen, Gerhild. We’re gonna find a way to fix this. I promise you. There’s a solution; we just have to find it.”

She nodded, her cheeks wet and smeared with her tears, and he busied himself wiping them away. When she was presentable again, he leaned forward and kissed her, her body no longer corpse-like since it was flushed with his blood. And his body reacted, as he feared it would. He searched for a topic of conversation to distract himself, thinking that no matter how much blood she had taken, she was still undead, and having sex with a corpse was one line he wouldn’t cross.

“So, um, why did you warn me not to struggle?”

“What?” she asked, blinking at him with surprise.

“Just before, ya know—that, you said ‘don’t struggle.’ I was just wondering if there was a reason,” he shrugged.

Her lips parted, her tongue flicking out to wipe across them before she answered, “Ah, most people don’t want to be fed on by a vampire. We usually catch our victims sleeping, otherwise we have to cast a spell to weaken their will to resist, to enthrall them. I don’t remember saying that, but I suppose I warned you, because if you did start struggling, my vampire instincts would have made me cast that spell, to keep you from fighting me. I would have enthralled you, and the more often I cast that spell on you, the longer it lasts, until one day it isn’t needed any longer. And I won’t do that to you, Vorstag. I will not make you my thrall.”

“You’ve said that already,” he murmured, “But believe me, I wouldn't want to be your thrall, anyway. You need someone to butt your head against.”

“Thanks,” she drew the word out sarcastically.

He pecked her lips again. “We should probably get going, don’t you think?”

She nodded, “It would be better to go while it’s still night. I… I could make Castle Volkihar in two nights, but not with you tagging along.”

“Some sort of vampire short-cut?” he asked, looking around for his helmet. He decided to carry it, wanting to finish off the rabbit while they walked.

She thought about it for a moment before answering, “Aye, something like that. Listen, it’s too dangerous for you to come with me to the castle, anyway. Lord Harkon might kill you on sight, or worse—turn you into a vampire.” She shrugged into her armor, and wasn’t surprised when he began helping her buckle it in place.

“You’re not suggesting we split up,” he groused, “Not so soon after finding each other again…”

She turned to grab his hands. “We’re not splitting up; we’re taking different routes. Go to Morthal; I’ll meet you there before the week is out.”

“Promise?”

She leaned her forehead against his. “Promise,” she affirmed. “Here, keep the Elder Scroll, so you know I’ll be coming back. It’ll be safer with you, than if I took it with me to the castle. Oh, one more thing: don’t get into any drinking competitions, alright?”

His bark of laughter was quickly stifled. “What will we do after we meet in Morthal? Make plans to defeat the vampires?”

“I was thinking Riften…” She smiled at his groan.

“Why?”

She set a hand against his cheek. “I miss your face, your old face. This one is nice, but it’s not you. I’d like to have you back, completely, if you don’t mind.”

He kissed her palm. “I don’t mind.”

“Even the tattoo?”


	27. Time to Prepare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, as soon as I say it's a nice quiet day, I jinx myself. Yesterday got out of hand. But, today's a new day! Let's try this again, shall we? Next chapter, here I come!

9th Rain’s Hand: 4E 205

“…forty-nine…” Vorstag grunted under his breath, contracting his muscles, curling his body. His torso and arms were coated with a light film of sweat, glistening in the lantern light. His face was flushed, his blood pounding in his ears even as he relaxed and allowed his body to hang upside-down. Then he flexed again, his hands clasped behind his head, lifting his elbows to his knees wrapped around a bar hanging from the ceiling.

“…fifty!…”

As he exercised, his mind absently drifted over the events of the past several weeks. He had gotten to Morthal first, and spent a few days scouting the area and making contacts with people, just being his usual friendly and easy-going self. One of the guards had told him something very interesting regarding the local mage. Of course he hadn’t inquired further himself, but he had told Gerhild. If there was a chance—please, Stuhn, let there be a way—even a glimmer of a spark of hope, he didn’t want to ruin it by moving too fast or too tactlessly.

But if this mage, Falion, was conducting experiments regarding the undead, doing research, and vampires are part of the undead… ah, gods, he couldn’t think on it yet. First they had to defeat the clan at Castle Volkihar, then they could find out if Falion had done any research on vampires.

And if he knew of a cure.

“…sixty-four…”

After Morthal there was a quick stop in Riften, where he got his face changed back, before he and Gerhild had reluctantly split up to handle the vampire threat. He was now in Castle Dawnguard, where he spent his time working with the vampire hunters to get them battle-ready. A daunting task, especially considering his background. Aye, he could fight, and often won, but that was in single combat or small groups. He knew next to nothing about battle tactics, strategies, or leadership. He was in over his head, and he knew it, even if the others hadn’t figured it out yet.

The plan was simple, though. Gerhild and Serana—he had met that strange vampire when Gerhild returned to him in Morthal—the two women were currently finding a way to read the Elder Scrolls and attain Auriel’s Bow. Then they’d take the bow to Lord Harkon, who would lower his defenses surrounding the castle to allow them entrance. That’s when Vorstag would lead the Dawnguard in an attack.

“…eighty-three…”

Simple, yet foolhardy. He had a handful of men and women, mostly unblooded youths looking for an adventure. Not to mention the surly, self-appointed leader, a Redguard named Isran. That man rubbed everyone the wrong way, and Vorstag coming in from nowhere and essentially taking over—even with the backing of the Dragonborn—did nothing to ease the tension between them.

“…ninety… one…”

Aye, he was in over his head, the Dawnguard were in over their heads, no doubt Gerhild and Serana were in over their heads. Yet all he or anyone could do was to keep trying, keep working towards their goal, hone their skills, prepare as much as possible. And pray.

“…aaarghhhh!!!”

He let his muscles relax completely, too out of breath to even try to say one-hundred, and allowed his body to swing upside-down from the bar, stretching the sore muscles, his fingertips more than a foot above the floor. He kept to a grueling schedule of training and exercise, pushing himself hard, as hard if not harder than he pushed the Dawnguard. He needed to, if they were going to be ready in time.

Time.

With a surprised snort—which his sore muscles immediately protested—he realized the date, and that he had gone the whole day without noticing it was his twenty-ninth birthday. He supposed he shouldn’t be upset no one mentioned it, as no one here knew him well enough to have even asked when he had been born. Ogmund was no longer around to send a gift or even a letter. Gerhild might have, but he knew she was busy, probably out of touch, though hopefully not in another realm of reality as she was prone to do…

There was a knock on his door, snapping him out of his musings, and he grunted permission to enter. He swung his body a few times, using his arms to gain momentum. At just the right moment, he loosened his grip around the bar and somersaulted through the air, spinning until he could land on his feet. It was a graceful move, a powerful move, and a precise move.

“You gotta show me how to do that,” breathed Agmaer, one of the greener recruits. He stood in the doorway, completely oblivious that Vorstag might not want his bedchamber door wide open, as he was wearing nothing more than a pair of leggings and some sweat.

Still, Vorstag gave him a warm smile and gestured him to come inside, “Sure. Once you’ve built the muscles for it. Right now, you should focus more on your aim with that crossbow; it’ll do you more good during the battle.” He went to lean his backside against a dresser, out of sight should anyone pass by in the hallway.

“Oh, ah, right,” he said, sounding disappointed, but he didn’t ask again.

Vorstag knew Agmaer stood in awe of him, why he couldn’t imagine and didn’t want to. The boy was fresh from the countryside, so perhaps it was merely that Vorstag was a sellsword, or that he traveled with the Dragonborn. He did his best to ignore the slack-jawed looks and absent-minded moments and focused on the reason he was there. He waited, but when it seemed Agmaer wasn’t going to say anything more, he asked, “Was there something you needed?”

The young man, who had been staring at Vorstag’s chest, gave a start. “Yes, no, well, not me, I mean, there’s a woman here.”

“Aye, a few,” Vorstag agreed, thinking the young man might have a crush on one of them and was coming to him to ask dating advice. He shifted into a more relaxed pose and tried not to smirk knowingly.

“No, a new one,” Agmaer’s cheeks started to turn a little pink. “She’s here for you.”

“Who is she?” Vorstag asked, his thoughts immediately jumping to one conclusion, hoping he was right. He turned to pour some water from the pitcher into the basin sitting on top of the dresser, rinsing the sweat from his body as the boy answered.

“Don’t know. She’s wearing a hood so you can’t see her face, kind of mysterious. She came up the trail just now, and simply asked if she could ‘speak with Vorstag.’ Wouldn’t even come inside the castle. But she must be from Riften or somewhere else nearby. She’s wearing this expensive gown of dark red velvet, and it doesn’t look like she’s been traveling far, ya know, no wrinkles or dust on the gown.”

He nodded to himself, each word confirming his suspicions. “Thanks, Agmaer,” he said, toweling off and flashing him a charming smile, before turning towards the wardrobe in the corner.

Gerhild had remembered his birthday.

“Could you go tell her I’ll be right there?” he asked, his voice muffled as he rummaged for a fresh tunic. He didn’t hear a response and turned around, but the boy had bolted, leaving the door wide open. Vorstag sighed, slipping his arms and head into the tunic, as he padded barefoot over to the door. Looking out, he barely caught a glimpse of Agmaer ducking around the corner. “Odd boy,” he mumbled, tucking his tunic into his leggings before sitting down to pull on his boots.

His mind wanted to reel—Gerhild was here!—but he couldn’t take the time. She was waiting for him outside, probably to lessen the chance of anyone recognizing her for who she was—or what. He didn’t want to waste a moment on needless speculation; their time tonight would be short enough. He finished stomping his feet into his boots as he headed for the main door, not even bothering to grab a cloak on his way out.

He was finger combing his hair as the doors closed behind him. Celann was standing just outside, guarding the main gate as usual. He gave Vorstag a nod in greeting, before saying, “Suppose Agmaer told you about the woman wanting to see you? She’s over there.”

Vorstag smiled his thanks and started in the direction he had pointed, already spying the corner of a cloak poking from around a large boulder on the side of the mountain. He walked up to her, neither slowly nor quickly, but he was sure she heard every single footfall.

He stopped three feet away from her, his breath in his throat. Aye, she knew he was there, as she slowly turned to face him, lowering her hood. The evening sun set her hair ablaze, the strands free of their usual braids and flaring into golden life. Even her eyes seemed to glow stronger, warmer, though still the unnatural amber.

“Happy birthday.”

He smiled, closing the gap between them. Tonight would be but a stolen moment in the grand scheme of things, but it was the best present he had ever received. He swept her up into his arms and spun her around, her laughter a lively contrast to her corpse-like existence. He didn't know how she did it, but for this one night, this perfect evening, she would be alive enough. He slowed to a stop and set her on her feet, his fingers burrowing into the loosened strands to tilt her head, his lips lowering to claim her mouth.

When he pulled away, he wanted to ask her how she'd managed to get here. Then again, he wasn't going to waste their brief time with questions; he probably wouldn’t understand the answers, even if she was willing to answer him. It was enough that she was there, in his arms, cool and beautiful and his alone. With that thought, he glanced over his shoulder before taking her hand. “Let’s go for a walk. There’s a trail that leads further into the canyon, nothing more than a goat trail, but it’s private.”

“Sounds heavenly,” she agreed, nervously keeping her gaze averted from Celann. She had met him before she had become a vampire, and she really didn't want anyone from the Dawnguard knowing of her… condition.

The going was slow, the light fading with the setting sun, which wouldn’t have bothered Gerhild, but Vorstag didn't have her advantages. She kept hold of his hand, as if afraid he might slip and fall away should she let go. And to her, he seemed equally insecure.

They were both quiet, currently content to simply walk and hold hands, the air turning cooler as the night began and they climbed higher into the mountains. Finally they stopped beside a small pond, a few scraggly bushes and stunted trees offering a little protection from the chilly breeze. Vorstag sat down on the grass, holding his arms out for her. Gerhild curled onto his lap, wrapping her cloak around both of them to ward off the cool spring breeze.

He bent his neck and closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of her hair. It wasn’t quite the same as before; there was the delicate tint of her lavender soap and a residual smell of dragon blood, but something else was mixed in with it, something slightly unpleasant. It served to remind him just how separate they were right then, and he turned his face to set his cheek against her silken locks instead.

“I have something for you,” she said softly, watching the reflections of the moons on the surface of the pond. He gave a half-curious hum for an answer, more than satisfied with just being near her. “It isn’t much,” she continued, oblivious to his disinterest, “But I always think of you, whenever I smell juniper, and Serana and I happened to be in this shop…”

He opened his eyes to see the small package in her hand, and failed to suppress the small laugh. “Let me guess: soap.”

“Aye," she answered with a somewhat sheepish giggle. “I suppose it’s a silly sort of gift…”

“Gerhild,” he interrupted her, “This is all the gift I need, you, here, in my arms.”

He may have said it was all he needed, but they both knew better. The situation between them was wrong, broken, messed up. She leaned into him, the package falling to the grass as she gripped his tunic. “I want so much more,” she sighed, trying to fight off those all-too-eager-to-be-felt emotions.

“So do I,” he assured her, sensing her need, holding her a little tighter. “So do I. But this is all we can have for now.”

“For now,” she agreed, catching the bloody tear before it could spill down her cheek. “Do you think…” she had to stop before she said those fateful words, her teeth biting down on her lower lip to cease the sounds.

Without looking his thumb was there, tugging her lip free, encouraging her to speak.

“Do you think he knows something?” She buried her face in his tunic, trying to suffocate the sounds against his muscular chest, but the words kept flowing, kept spilling into that unbridgeable void between them. “Do you think the mage in Morthal has studied vampires, that he might know of a cure? Could we be that lucky for once?”

Vorstag chuckled, sounding more confident than he felt. “Aye, Gerhild, my love, with the way our luck has been running lately, we’re due a good turn or two. You’ll see; this Falion will know how to cure you.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Besides, I’m confident he will know something. You said there had been a renegade vampire clan near Morthal a couple of years ago. I bet Falion moved to Morthal to study them, and after they were gone stayed for the scenery.”

She had to look up at him to make sure, but one glance at his face and she knew he was teasing her, the corner of his mouth twitching. She found an answering smile on her own lips, and rolled her eyes playfully to cover it up. “Oh, aye, swampland is so picturesque, especially in the middle of a muggy summer.”

“Sounds like you’re being sarcastic,” he laughed, holding her hand over his heart, the pads of his fingers stroking her skin warmed by his body and the cloak. “Alright, if not swampland, then what kind of scenery do you like.”

She considered it for a moment. “Someplace with trees. And water. And in the mountains. Not a city, though; no offense to Markarth, but I prefer a view I don’t have to share with my neighbors, especially when they’re part of the view.”

“Hm,” he thought about it for a moment, trying to decide if any place in Skyrim fit that description. “So, you’re not very picky, then.”

They laughed together this time, and if she had the ability she might have blushed. “I suppose you’d prefer living in the Reach.”

“Aye, I suppose I would have, once,” he admitted, “But there are a lot of places I haven’t seen yet, including this mountainous-woody-watery-countryside you speak of.”

She gave him a mock sort of huff, and they laughed again. When the sound faded away, they were still smiling. Once more she nestled beneath his chin, and the silence between them grew comfortable as they watched the moons’ reflections cross the surface of the pond.

Aye, their situation was difficult at best, but they would get through it. Together. She was determined in that one respect. No matter what else happened, no matter what may come of her vampirism, they would be together for as long as he lived.

“Gerhild…”

She hummed a response, but when he didn’t continue, she pulled back to look up at him again. His expression was intense, almost fearful, and she wondered what sort of inner dremora he was struggling with, and if she wanted to know.

“Gerhild, I… I love you.”

His words were so sincere, his expression in such need of her understanding and acceptance, it struck a chord within her. “I know,” she tried to assure him, her hand touching his tattooed cheek, “And I love you.”

“Gerhild,” he held his hand over hers, pressing it harder against his skin, seeming to gain courage from the contact, “Gerhild, will you marry me?”

She hesitated only a moment, such an infinitesimal moment it might have been imagined, “Aye. I will marry you, Vorstag, someday.”

He closed his eyes, or perhaps took a slow blink, but he made himself open them again and hold her gaze. “Why ‘someday?’ Why not now?” he pressed. “There’s a Temple of Mara in Riften just down the road. We could be married in a few days.”

“Vorstag…”

“I don’t care about the vampirism, if that’s the issue. I want to be with you, Gerhild, and I want you to know that you are the only woman for me.”

“I know that already,” she pulled her hand free to put a finger to his lips, pausing his arguments. If she let him get the wind in his sails, he would talk her into it. “But there’s too much going on right now. I know, you don’t think it matters, but I… I can’t do it, not yet. Let me focus on the vampires and dragons, first. Then, after Harkon and Alduin are vanquished, then I will marry you, then I’ll be able to think about love and children and a future. And even if… if there’s no cure for my condition, I promise, we’ll marry and at least live our lives together.” She kissed him, swift and sweet. “I’ll give you everything I can, everything I have to offer, even though you deserve so much more.”

“I don’t care what you think I deserve; I only know I want you.”

“You’ll have me; I promise,” she vowed, “After the vampires and the dragons, you’ll have me for the rest of your life. There’s no one else I love, no one else I could love; I can give you that much at least.”

“You seem to be under the impression that I want something else.”

“Don’t you?” she wondered. “Don’t you want children? A son or daughter to carry on your line, to have your eyes and my dimples? Even barring that, don’t you want the physical interaction that comes with a marriage? I can't give you that, Vorstag. If I’m never cured of vampirism, all I can offer is my companionship, from this day onward, unto your death.”

Aye, in a painfully brutal moment of truth, he could admit to himself that he wanted more, to spend his nights with her like that night they spent on the Northern Maiden, to watch her belly grow ripe and round with his seed, to laugh at time and change, and to grow old with her. They may never have that—if there was no cure—but he swallowed his pride and refused to let the pain show. He would take what they could get, and he would never let her know how much it hurt.

“All I need,” he said carefully, “Is here in my arms.” He leaned back to lie on the ground and pulled her with him, gently, lovingly, his arms wrapped around her, his long body pressed up against her, the cloak enveloping them both.

She supposed she knew, on some level, that he was hiding something, that he was playing some trick of words to try to pretend that everything was alright, but she allowed herself to believe the lie. And she prayed, she prayed to all Nine Divines—as she spent the rest of the night, lying spooned to his front beside the pond—that the mage in Morthal knew of a cure.

* * *

18th Rain’s Hand: 4E 205

“Again!” Vorstag commanded, “Harder this time. Really try to hit me.”

Agmaer looked exhausted, on the verge of losing his breakfast, but he obediently attacked again. They were sparring outside, an extra training session that the youth had asked for, presumably to hone his swordsmanship. Vorstag had obliged, mostly because he wanted some sparring time himself, not because he thought he was a good instructor. Yet he had discovered, to his own amazement, that he might be a fair teacher after all—the boy was actually learning a few techniques from him. He still had a long way to go, however, which is why Vorstag continued to want Agmaer to focus mostly on the crossbow during the battle. Though knowing how to use a sword wasn’t going to hurt.

“That’s good,” he encouraged after a strong swing, trying to instill confidence. Maybe if Agmaer was more sure of himself, his skills would improve faster. He twirled his blade and tried to catch Agmaer’s sword, but couldn’t spin it out of his grasp. At last he had to give up and step back, grinning with a little satisfaction when he saw Agmaer’s shoulders straighten with his own pride, seeing as he had held on to his blade.

“Keep the tip of your sword up!” a new voice called, causing both men to turn on the spot, Vorstag with his back to his opponent. Agmaer recovered first and saw the opportunity, swinging his sword at the back of Vorstag’s head. He connected with a shield, seeming to appear out of thin air, the resounding clatter loud in the outdoor arena.

Vorstag lowered his shield as he turned back to look at the youth. “You really thought I wouldn’t be prepared for that?”

Agmaer shrugged, grinning unrepentantly. “It was worth a try.”

Vorstag laughed with him. “Aye, lad, a good try. And it might work, on someone else. But let’s put up our swords for now. Looks like we’ve got visitors.”

Agmaer didn’t want to, but seeing that there were Stormcloak officers approaching, he didn’t argue. Vorstag sheathed his sword and began loosening the straps holding his shield in place as he studied the approaching soldiers. Two looked to be Captains, and the one in front a General judging by the bearskin mantle weighing down his shoulders. But it was the sparkling blue eyes and astonished smile that caught his attention.

“Ralof!” he cried, dropping the shield and racing down the path towards them. Getting closer, he recognized his fellow Northwatch Keep prisoner, “Thorald!”

“Ysmir’s beard,” Ralof answered, his eyes still a little wide even after they were close enough he could no longer deny the truth, “Vorstag, you son of a bitch, you do live!” The two men embraced, laughing and slapping each other hard on the back. It might have gone on a moment too long, but neither one was going to mention it. Vorstag left him to immediately grab Thorald.

“By the Nine,” he breathed, not wanting to let go either. “The Dragonborn told us you could… that you were…” he stuttered, eyeing Agmaer, not wanting to say too much about their shared past in front of a stranger. He cleared his throat and instead said, “You remember my brother, Avulstein.”

“Aye,” Vorstag gripped his forearm in the Nordic fashion, before they too ended up slapping each other’s backs. “Stuhn’s Shield, but it’s good to see you again, or meet you, I mean…”

The four of them broke down into laughter. It was an awkward moment, but none of them truly seemed to mind, more grateful for the reunion than concerned over the correct social procedure.

Ralof was the first to recover, his smile deepening as he commented, “Should’ve known, nothing can take out Arctic Stones.”

Vorstag groaned and rolled his eyes, but knew it was all meant in good fun.

“Arctic Stones?” Agmaer said, forgetting that he was trying not to be obvious about his eavesdropping. He blushed a deep red when all four men looked at him.

“Aye,” Vorstag answered first, still smiling, trying to put the boy at ease again. “A nickname I got after a fistfight. How is Rolff, by the way?”

“Limping, as always,” Ralof answered as they began walking back up to the castle, Vorstag picking up his shield along the way. “He was upset when he heard, well, we all heard, about your, er…”

“My death?” Vorstag finished, feeling the mood shift soberly.

Ralof nodded. “His limp got worse after that, kinda like a memorial to you or something. But when Ger… I mean, the Dragonborn came through and said you were alive and well, and working with the Dawnguard, well, Rolff practically started dancing in the streets. Wanted to come, but Galmar said no, that you’d need younger men as volunteers.”

“Volunteers?” he asked, somewhat bewildered. “You three are here to volunteer?” He remembered Gerhild had promised to find more men, but he had hoped for a more substantial group. Well, he told himself, it wasn’t much, but it was three more than they had this morning.

“Aye,” answered Thorald, “And about four hundred more coming up the road from Riften. That brings up a problem: I don’t think there’s enough room in the castle, even in the canyon here, for all the troops. Gonna have to work out some logistics.”

“I’ll put Isran on it. Agmaer,” he said, finding an excuse to send him off without being obvious about it, “Would you go and find Isran, tell him about our latest volunteers. He’ll probably wanna look them over himself.”

“Right away, Sir Vorstag,” Agmaer saluted awkwardly, still a little red, and raced off to find the self-proclaimed Dawnguard leader.

“Sir now, is it?” Ralof teased.

Vorstag laughed, giving a nonchalant shrug, “Aye, well, arriving here as the Dragonborn’s Companion, with her stating that she wanted me to help them get ready for attacking the vampires, it kinda called for rank or a title or something, ya know? Hey, what about you? General Ralof?”

“Aye, well,” he coughed a little, “It’s the thanks I get, for surviving a war I didn’t fight in. Didn’t really do anything more than stand behind the Dragonborn looking menacing. You know how that is.” The men laughed, sharing the inside joke. Gerhild needed an escort like she needed a companion. Yet she was friend to both of them—lover to one—and even if she didn’t need them to protect her, she did need them. He nodded to Celann, who held the door open for them.

“When she came to Windhelm,” Ralof continued, “And explained about the vampires and asked for volunteers, she said we’d find you here. High King Ulfric didn’t believe her, but then the brothers here stepped forward and confessed they knew you were alive.” He stopped to stare intently at Vorstag’s face, squinting a little. “You were really blinded, weren’t you? It wasn’t some sort of trick or temporary spell or anything?”

“I… I was blinded,” he admitted, swallowing thickly. It still hurt to remember that time; he even had a nightmare about it a few nights ago. But it was over, in the past, and there were more than enough current matters to deal with, so he shoved the memories aside.

“How on Nirn did you accomplish such a feat?” Thorald was asking, staring at his face, looking for scars that had been there but were now erased, not the slightest mark remained of the Oblivion he had been put through. “I saw it. By Talos, I was there, I… I heard… I watched…”

Vorstag took a deep breath; he knew coming back from the dead was going to be hard. “Aye, well, it’s a long story, and I’m sorry, but some of it I can’t tell to you. Would endanger someone else’s life, if word got out. But I am alive,” he looked to Ralof before turning back to Thorald, “And I can see again.” It was difficult, wanting to assure his friends, but knowing he couldn’t reveal what he knew of the Face Sculptor. He touched his cheek. Damn, but he swore the tattoo was itchy. Still, he had his own face back, tattoo and all. The stupid things Gerhild could talk him into.

“So,” Avulstein clapped him on the shoulder, “Have you heard from the Dragonborn recently? Will she be ready on time?” He looked around at the few Dawnguard members, no doubt wondering if they would be ready on time, too.

Vorstag nodded, “Saw her not long ago. Come on, we’ll go to my room where it’s a bit more private. I’ll grab a cask of mead and we’ll wet our throats while we catch up, maybe even get around to hammering out a few details of our plans.”

Ralof laughed. “That would be a good idea, considering that’s why we’re here.” Vorstag effortlessly hefted a cask onto his shoulder, and the four of them marched through the castle, fully intending to finalize their plans… after the mead was finished.

* * *

26th Second Seed: 4E 205

The three travelers stood, side-by-side, trying not to gawk like children at the size of the mountain. One wore the serviceable brown heavy armor of a Dawnguard soldier, one wore lightweight leather armor with a hood pulled up, and one wore the deep blackness of Ebony armor.

“We’re here,” Vorstag’s voice was subdued.

“Aye,” Gerhild answered simply.

“I suppose it’s silly,” began Serana, “But I never thought it would be so big. I know, it’s called the Throat of the World, but…” Her voice faded away into the evening air. They had been traveling, the three of them, from Castle Dawnguard for a week or more. It was slower than the two women could have journeyed on their own, but Vorstag had insisted on coming with them.

They traveled without the army—the strange conglomeration of former Stormcloaks given a few quick pointers on how to kill vampires, and Dawnguard members who had been given a few basic battle tactics. It was slipshod at best, but they outnumbered the Volkihar Clan five-to-one. It should be enough. They had sent the hastily cross-trained soldiers on ahead, marching to Windhelm where they would take ship and sail for the rendezvous near the abandoned Northwatch Keep.

That was not why he wanted to go with Gerhild, he told himself, when she decided to make a stop along the way. He could see the mania inside her growing, the driving need to do things and do them quickly, and he was afraid of how reckless she might grow, if she didn’t have something—someone—to remind her that she had reason to value her own life.

“You still wanna do this now?”

Gerhild couldn’t form the saliva to swallow the anxiety threatening to choke her. Always her emotions came closer to the surface, whenever he was with her. And she didn’t seem to mind any longer; in fact, she felt she needed it, needed him, in her life—or un-death. All because he helped her handle these emotions; he showed her their usefulness and strength, like now. Admitting her fears meant that she knew she was vulnerable, ensuring she wouldn’t grow reckless. “Aye, it’s on the way. If I can learn how to defeat Alduin first, then we won’t have to double-back after we confront Harkon. We’ll defeat the vampires, then Alduin, then go to Morthal and speak with that mage you heard about and…” She had to stop. That was too many steps ahead, too many things to do before she could consider a cure, a future, a life…

Vorstag heard her hesitation, and took her hand. Aye, she needed him, that was why he had insisted on coming with. Hope for her own future was still a difficult concept for her to accept. “Let’s get going then. Are there really seven thousand steps?”

“You wanna count? Personally, I keep forgetting my place every time I’m attacked by the bears and spiders and sabre cats,” she retorted, glad for the distraction. She kept up a light banter with him as they crossed the river and began the ascent, Serana quiet yet content to walk with them.

Vorstag was winded within the first mile, but he tried not to let it show. He knew it was misguided pride, to be unwilling to show he was out of breath in front of two creatures who didn’t breathe, but he couldn’t help it. Gerhild needed him right then, to be strong, to be near, and he wasn’t going to let her go on without him.

They climbed through the evening and into the night, his muscles burning with fatigue, his pride the only thing keeping him upright. Gerhild hadn’t been joking about the hostile animals; he figured they had been attacked seven times on the way up. It wasn’t a surprise now, why Gerhild had stopped in the small town and offered to take a sackful of supplies up to the Greybeards. It wasn’t hard for the three of them, armed and trained and two being vampires, to handle the creatures; but for anyone else it would have been a nightmare.

He stole a glance at her beside him, wearing her Ebony armor for this part of the trip; she’d wear the Daedric armor while facing Harkon, but the Dawnguard knew her in her Ebony armor… He shook his head; it had to be difficult for her to keep all those different personas straight, who knew her as the Ebony Warrior, or as the Dragonborn, or as Lady Gerhild—and which Lady Gerhild. She needed to give up all these pretenses before she lost her self.

She needed a place, a home, where she could be simply Gerhild.

She stopped at one point, taking a moment to look out over the view. It was full night by then, and though Vorstag couldn’t see much of anything, he stood beside her and took her hand. “What are you thinking?” he asked softly, once he was able to speak without gasping for breath.

Her helmet hid her smile. She wasn’t going to bruise his pride by stating how she had wanted to give him a break, having listened to his labored breath echoing inside his helmet while walking, or exhausted grunts while fighting off that last frost troll. Instead she let her eyes wander over the landscape, the night as clear to her as day, and commented, “If you look to the southwest, just over there, you can make out Helgen. Looks like someone’s still living there, probably bandits; there’s torchlight glowing off the underside of the clouds.”

He could barely make out the glow, but didn’t speak.

“That’s where it all started,” she whispered, barely loud enough to slip past her helmet and hood, as if she was talking to herself. And perhaps she was, her thoughts running so deep. “Helgen. It seems a lifetime ago, sitting on the back of a wagon across from Ralof, next to Ulfric.” She took a shuddering breath, the need born more from reflex than lack of oxygen. “I was so scared. I knew I was going to my death, to the headsman’s axe. I can still remember looking at Ulfric, seeing his strength, trying to emulate him. I didn’t know he had men in hiding, poised to rescue us. I only knew he wasn’t afraid, so maybe I shouldn’t be afraid, either.

“Then we were there. I was climbing down from the wagon,” she continued, a little louder, but still acting as if she was talking to herself, “Walking towards the block, kneeling, and then… I saw Alduin. I can’t describe him to you, Vorstag. Though we’ve fought dragons together, none of them compare to the pure evil and hungry power, the… the… the hate, the… lust for destruction…”

She turned to look at him, but he wasn’t sure if she saw him. “The Greybeards think I’m foolish, wanting to destroy Alduin. He’s the World-Eater, they say, if it’s time for the world to end, then let him end it. But… I don’t think they’re right. I think… maybe… I’m here now… as the Dragonborn… because Alduin is here now, ya know? Why else would I have this Voice—this ability—at the time of Alduin’s return, if I wasn’t meant to use it?” She slipped an arm around his waist, leaning her head against him.

Vorstag put his arm around her shoulders in return. It was awkward, embracing while wearing armor, but it was the gesture that counted, if not the touch. They stood for a few moments longer, watching the night grow older, the moons slipping across the sky. Off in the distance, more westerly than Helgen, he could just make out the shimmering surface of a very large body of water surrounded by forest. It must be Lake Ilinalta, he thought to himself. It all looked so peaceful from up there, so serene and… perfect. He supposed he could understand why the Greybeards would prefer to live there, above and removed from the world. But in their isolation, they forgot that the world was more than scenery, that there were people, people with dreams and hopes and lives. And those people needed saving.

Aye, Gerhild’s arrival in Skyrim, and the discovery of her abilities, had to be for a greater purpose than to simply stand aside and let Alduin destroy the world; the timing was too coincidental.

“I’ve caught my breath,” he said gently, “We should get going.”

He could hear the smile in her voice as she answered, “Am I that obvious?”

“Only to me,” he assured her.

The rest of the climb was quieter, with only one more attack, this time from an ice wraith. They reached High Hrothgar at daybreak, much to Serana’s delight. “Just in time. It’s not that I mind the sunlight, but the less time I spend in it, the better it is for my complexion.”

Vorstag nodded, reaching the massive door first and holding it open for the lady vampires. “After you.”

Serana smiled as they filed past him. “Oh, you are a keeper. She’s very lucky to have found you.” She laughed lightly as he sputtered in response.

Inside it was calm, the ancient stone structure cool and dark. After walking down a short hallway they found themselves in a small chamber with several other hallways leading off from it. Serana lowered her hood and sighed, Vorstag looked around curiously, but after setting the pack of supplies near a stack of baskets, Gerhild walked to the middle of the chamber and waited.

“It’s so quiet,” he mumbled. “Maybe they’re still asleep.”

“They don’t sleep very much,” she answered, “They prefer meditation. Mostly it’s quiet because they don’t often speak. They study the Thu’um so much, the power is continually within their voices. Only Master Arngeir is able to talk normally again, because his mastery of the Thu’um is so great.”

“You mentioned him once,” Vorstag nodded, standing with his back towards a wall, the entrance in sight as well as the other hallways. “Something to do with not carelessly using the Thu’um, say, to break apart empty chests.”

Immediately she recalled the incident he obliquely referred to; it happened during their mission to find the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. She turned to look at him to find out if he was teasing her, but his face was completely concealed within his Dawnguard heavy armor. She did see his shoulders give a slight jerk, and knew there was that shit-eating grin splitting his lips. Just like he knew her eyes had narrowed threateningly.

Serana was idly walking around the chamber, looking at the etchings on the walls. “That makes sense,” she hummed, “Using a great power for trivial matters is not wise.”

“Tell me about it,” Gerhild sighed, having to look away from Vorstag before she started laughing. Stuhn’s Shield, but that man drove her crazy, bringing up such an embarrassing moment in such an innocent manner. She rubbed at her chest, as if she could still feel the bruises from the resulting explosion.

Just then an old man in gray robes walked out from a side hallway. “Master Arngeir,” she inclined her head, grateful for the distraction.

“Dovahkiin,” he acknowledged, and his voice rumbled with a distant, supernatural echo, as if speaking her name in the dragon language caused him to lose control. “Excuse me. I am surprised to see you here. And with… companions.” The disapproval was apparent in his tone of voice. He stared intently at Serana, who chose that moment to turn towards him, the amber light in her eyes shining.

“Master,” Gerhild stepped in between them before anything could start. “I know this is unusual, and if I had time to ask for your permission beforehand, I would have. As it stands, I must instead ask for your pardon.” She took off her own helmet and hood, revealing a second pair of vampiric eyes.

Arngeir was noticeably upset, at least if the reddening of his face was anything to go by. He turned to Vorstag next, who put up his hands placatingly and said, “Not me. I’m just your normal, average, run-of-the-mill Nord.” He took off his helmet to prove it.

“So!” he huffed, and there was the sound of distant thunder rumbling deep beneath their feet. “So,” he began again, softer and back in control of his Voice, “You have sought instruction from an apostate, ignored my advice regarding the World Eater, and now you seek to defy this sacred place with Daedra worship?”

“I knew this wouldn’t go well,” Gerhild mumbled to herself. Vorstag stood behind her while she did her best to explain herself to the ancient Greybeard. He was angry at first, giving in to a quick temper and a quicker wit judging by his biting comments. She persevered, explaining what she did and why, not asking for his forgiveness for her actions, only for bringing Vorstag and Serana to High Hrothgar. “I have the Elder Scroll,” she wrapped up, “And once I bring it to Paarthurnax, I’ll have that ancient secret I need to defeat Alduin. I know you and I do not agree. I accept that. I ask you to accept that, too. And,” she gestured to the others, “Please, allow my companions to wait for me here.”

“No,” Vorstag said, coming up beside her and taking her hand. “I’m going with you.”

“No,” both Arngeir and Gerhild said at the same time. She shot the old man a look before fully facing Vorstag. “No, Vorstag, you cannot reach the summit. You need to be able to Shout to climb that high. Trust me,” her gauntleted hand squeezed his, “I’m only going up there to learn a Thu’um; it won’t take long.”

He didn’t feel right, something dark and itchy settling between his shoulder blades, but he nodded reluctantly. He pressed his lips briefly against hers before stepping back and letting go.

Arngeir, however, seemed to want the final word. “You and I, it seems, will ever be at odds, Dovahkiin. Such is the way of the Master and the Student. Very well, do what you think you must. I have tried my best to influence you, to instruct you, but you are a stubborn Nord at heart. Go on up to the summit. Your… companions… are welcome to wait here or in the courtyard. I only ask that they not try to speak to the others.”

“We won’t,” Vorstag vowed, Serana nodding in agreement.

They walked outside into the back courtyard, the sun fully up, the wind strong and bitingly cold. Serana immediately regretted coming outside, but she knew Vorstag would want to be with Gerhild right up to the last possible moment. She pulled her hood up and stayed within the shadows.

Gerhild shoved her helmet back on, also with a little relief. She and Serana both had brought an ample supply of Potion of Blood, and she made sure to drink enough to appear mostly human, but the less time she spent in the sun the more comfortable she felt. She removed the Elder Scroll from her pack before handing the pack to Vorstag. “Hold on to this for me, would you?”

“Aye,” he said simply. He wanted to say more, but the words wouldn’t come. She didn’t speak again either, but gave him a slap on the shoulder before turning and heading to the far side of the courtyard, walking through the gate. He heard her Shout once before she was swallowed by the swirling snow.


	28. Time to Battle

The courtyard of High Hrothgar was almost deserted. After Gerhild left for the summit, Serana had gone back inside without another word. Vorstag, however, had remained outside, pacing back and forth across the courtyard, threatening to pack the snow into ice. Every so often he’d look up at the very peak of the mountain, so high that the summit was lost to sight behind wind and clouds. If willpower alone could have done so, he would have moved the mountain to stand beside her.

But he wasn’t Ysmir, the Dragon of the North, Dovahkiin, Dragonborn.

He was merely Vorstag, formerly of Markarth.

He caught himself several times trying to stick his knuckles between his teeth, his gauntleted fist banging into his helmet. Gods, but the weight of responsibility on Gerhild’s slender shoulders had to be staggering. Aye, she’d spoken of it often, and he tried to understand what she said, but climbing this mountain with her… meeting Master Arngeir and hearing his voice rumble with the Thu’um… seeing they were only halfway to the summit… hearing the pain and longing in her voice as she gazed at Helgen…

He wondered, if Alduin went to Helgen already knowing who she was, intending to kill her before she discovered the truth. And instead he interrupted her execution—he helped to create her. Gods, that had to gall him.

He heard a distant rumble, but never having been up so high before, he thought it was thunder, that the sound of a distant storm would echo strangely, almost supernaturally, when high above the clouds…

“Vorstag,” Serana was suddenly at his elbow, “Come and get something to eat. It’s midday, and you never broke your fast.”

He shook his head. “I’m not hungry.” He remembered how he had acted in the Skaal village, and had to give a short laugh at himself. “Don’t mind me, Serana, I didn’t mean to snap at you.” He looked up at the summit for the hundredth time. “I don’t like this, her having to face these things alone. When we were on Solstheim, she had to go into Hermaeus Mora’s plane of Oblivion, and battle Miraak, the First Dragonborn. It was strange, like her soul stayed behind, but her body disappeared. I couldn’t go with her then, either. All I could do was keep a vigil over… what little of her remained behind. I don’t even have that this time.”

Serana set a comforting hand on his shoulder. “She’s not battling Daedra, Vorstag, only reading an Elder Scroll, something she’s done with some success already.”

“Aye, I know,” he sighed, “But you don’t know her talent for getting into trouble…”

The thunder roared again, closer this time, low and angry and full of power. Vorstag lifted his eyes to the approaching storm, only to find one small cloud flying faster than possible directly towards the summit. “Stuhn’s Shield,” he whispered, “That… that’s… ah, gods, no…” he moaned.

Serana had been distracted by the approaching oddity. Her sharp eyes told her the same as Vorstag’s instincts had told him: it was a dragon. A large one, as black as death, with a face older than time and a cavernous mouth filled with insatiable hunger. Powerful limbs ended in jagged claws, and a mane of bony horns crowned its head. It had to be Alduin, the World Eater.

The End of Time.

It was Master Arngeir’s voice that brought her out of her thoughts. “Stop him!” he shouted, and she brought her gaze down from the sky to see Vorstag, sprinting for the archway that led from the courtyard to the trail further up the mountain. She practically flew to him, catching him just beyond the archway, before he could get lost within the swirling snow and gusting wind.

“Let me go!” he cried, struggling though he knew his strength was no match for Serana’s vampiric powers. He had to try, even though he knew he’d never reach her in time.

“No,” she said simply, dragging him back to the archway.

“She’s up there, alone, with only some old Greybeard to help her fight Alduin. I’ve gotta reach her. I can help!”

“No.”

“She’s facing him alone…”

Serana finally wrestled him back into the courtyard and the protective circle of the Greybeards. “That was ever her doom, you know that. You cannot interfere with her fate. All you can do is be here for her, be something for her to live for, for her to come back to.”

“But…” he felt compelled to argue as he finally pulled out of her grasp, “She’s just one girl, one girl and some old hermit against a dragon!”

Arngeir stepped up to him, laying a hand on his shoulder, and offered cryptically, “Perhaps they aren’t as unevenly matched as you think.”

Vorstag pulled away, unwilling to be consoled. “I thought you wanted her to fail! I thought you wanted the world to be destroyed! To let Alduin win!”

The Greybeard shook his head sadly. “As ever, the ignorant do not understand,” he sighed. He lifted his face for a moment to look at the summit, to watch the lights and listen to the supernatural echoes of the Shouts. “If it is time for the world to be destroyed, then who are we to gainsay it? Even Dovahkiin cannot stand against the will of Akatosh. But,” he looked back to Vorstag, “If it is not Akatosh’s will to end the world today, then perhaps she will prevail. We must accept it, whatever the outcome. That is our fate,” he nodded towards the summit, “Just as that is her’s.”

Vorstag swallowed thickly, his eyes flying towards the peak. He thought he could hear at least two different voices Shouting, so Gerhild must still be fighting, and maybe the Greybeard leader was fighting, too. Standing there, so far removed from the fight, he couldn’t help but feel small and insignificant. What was his worth, when all he could do for her was stand and watch?

“You keep her grounded,” Serana said softly, for his ears alone. She continued, as if she could read his mind, “You are what she lives for, whom she lives for. No one else has given her hope, has shown her love, has made her want to have a dream of her own. She told me so, during our journeys.” Serana paused to give a little laugh, “She says it upsets her, sometimes, the effect you have on her, but she loves you. She understands that now.”

“Aye, I know,” he all but moaned. “She is the same to me. I would die for her.”

“Would you live for her?” Serana asked. He was shocked enough by the question to pull his eyes away from the near-heavenly battle to stare at her. “That is what you need to do, Vorstag. Live for her. Live so she has someone to return to. And after all her battles are over, if she is unable to find a cure for her… condition, you will have to live the life she can never have.” Her hand touched his helmeted cheek. “Do you have the strength to do that?”

He was thankful he still wore his helmet, feeling the hot and unmanly tears slip past his eyelashes. He couldn’t speak, not right then, but he understood what Serana was trying to say. Gerhild needed him. Her fate was doom-driven, but it would help her chances of survival if she had something or someone to return to. That was his fate, to be her anchor, her guiding star, her Eye in the Warrior constellation… to guide her back home when she was through.

And if she could never fully come home, if she could never again be the woman she had been, it would be up to him to complete her life.

At last he managed a nod. As bitter and painful as it was to admit, he would do anything for her, even if it meant he had to leave her, dying of old age while her immortal vampiric body lived on.

Because he loved her.

They waited as time slipped past, as Shouts and Thu’ums shook the very mountain, as the skies cleared and clouded. When everything grew quiet, a fist of dread clenched his heart harder than Norilar had ever managed. He didn’t dare breathe as a dark and menacing figure emerged from the hidden summit and flew off towards the east.

“What does it mean?” Serana asked. “That was Alduin. He wasn’t defeated, but he wasn’t victorious or he would have stayed. Was he… retreating?”

Vorstag didn’t give a fuck about the dragon just then. “Can we go up there now?” he asked, grabbing the front of Arngeir’s robes. “Can we find out if she’s… if Gerhild…” he realized what he was doing, grabbing hold of the Greybeard and threatening him. Shamefaced he let go, stalking away from everyone, unable to even utter an apology. He reached the ledge around the building and sat down, weary to his very bones. There was only one thing left for him to do. “Stuhn, hear my prayer, preserve your Champion…”

The wait was excruciating for him. The Greybeards seemed confident that there was nothing they needed to do, and went on about their lives, mostly meditating. Serana, as much as she wanted to return inside, kept a vigil beside Vorstag. He seemed unreachable, sitting and staring at the ground before his feet, his lips moving with barely a breath behind them, but she could hear his words, his unceasing prayer, even from within his helmet.

It was near evening when they heard it, a Shout ripped away by the wind, and in turn ripping the wind away from the mountain. Vorstag lifted his head, like a wolf sniffing a scent, and stared at the archway. The blizzard-like condition beyond began to clear, and in a heartbeat he was on his feet and running, fully intending to ignore any warning Master Arngeir or Serana might say. He passed the archway just as she came into view.

Gerhild staggered, almost all her strength used up on that final Shout, but she had reached High Hrothgar at last. A familiar form came to her through the mist threatening to drown her vision, and she sank gratefully into Vorstag’s arms.

“Gerhild…?”

She heard him call to her, and she followed the sound of his voice, moving away from the abyss that wanted to claim her. “Aye,” she answered with more strength than she thought she had left. “Vorstag, get me inside, please.”

“Of course,” he murmured, lifting her up into his arms as if she weighed nothing more than a feather. He saw the damage to her armor, some parts melted as if by an intense heat, other parts shattered like glass. She had been limping, and there were several punctures in her armor, one of which left a large hole through her upper chest and shoulder. He tried not to notice the glimpses of the snowy ground he could see through the bloodless wound as he carried her through the courtyard towards the castle.

“I will show you to a room you may use,” offered Arngeir, actually sounding gracious for the first time. Vorstag didn’t bother to dwell on it, his focus on doing what he could for Gerhild. She didn’t notice it at all, her senses filled with the heartbeats of those around her, especially the one closest. Stuhn’s Shield, she wanted to feed! But she was cold, so cold, and it would be just as easy to sleep…

The abyss was calling to her again, but Vorstag’s arms around her kept her from tipping into it. She felt the softness of a mattress beneath her body, and the gentleness of his long fingers as he began to carefully remove her damaged armor. Something caught her shoulder, tugging her body, and she heard Vorstag mutter a curse. “It’s alright,” she assured him, “I don’t feel it. My trick worked; Alduin couldn’t kill me, because I’m already undead. No pain. No blood. No death.”

He had tossed his helmet and gauntlets aside after setting her on the bed, wanting a clear look and unhindered hands as he tried to remove her damaged armor as painlessly as possible. By the Nine, but it made his skin crawl, to see cuts that didn’t bleed, burns that didn’t ooze. The armor on her leg had melted under intense heat, but the dead flesh beneath it was like dried, over-cooked meat. At her side the cuirass had shattered apart, the Ebony weakened by an icy freeze. Her flesh beneath it had gotten so cold it burned, looking dry and leathery and brown.

Then there was that damned hole straight through her shoulder. And she had acted like it was merely a scratch, a minor inconvenience. He looked to the other side of the bed to where Serana sat and watched impassively. “Do you think you have enough of that potion…?”

Her amber eyes blinked once. “We have more than enough, Vorstag, don't worry about that. The problem will be getting her to drink it.”

…cold. That was all Gerhild felt now. The coldness of ice and earth and the grave. Not death—death would not be hers—but sleep eternal. Or at least until something weaker than her came within reach…

“What do you mean?” he asked, stripping her completely. He didn't like the way her face was changing again, becoming more bat-like, her skin gray, like she had looked when they finally left Blackreach.

“She’s too weak,” Serana answered, her voice sounding sad. “She’s been injured so severely, that her body is going into a deep sleep, preserving what little energy it has to work on healing her wounds. It’s a very slow process, and it means she won’t feed on her own. We will have to force feed her, at first.”

“What do I do?” he asked, swallowing thickly, instilling as much determination and endurance into his expression as possible.

Serana passed over a small red vial. “She’ll need all of this, perhaps more, but this should be enough for her to recover to the point where she’ll wake up. Then she can decide how much more she’ll need, if any. Start with a few drops, into the back of her throat, then stroke her neck like so, coaxing her to swallow.”

Vorstag followed her instructions, dribbling the potion, his fingers moving over her corpse-like skin from just beneath her chin to the base of her neck, over and over, until her larynx bobbed as she swallowed. He gave a small cry of triumph and tipped the bottle again, watching her lips, lifeless and still, passively allowing the dripping potion to spill into her mouth. Serana discreetly left the room, allowing them privacy, knowing Gerhild was in the best of hands.

Gerhild was so cold. It wasn’t painful or upsetting, it wasn’t even mildly irritating, it was simply cold. Her body registered it and acted accordingly. Cold this deep meant sleep. A long, slow sleep. A peaceful, dreamless sleep. A timeless, ageless sleep.

Something warm dripped into her mouth. Hot and bright red. She could hear a heartbeat nearby, forceful and steady and only a little fast, but it wasn’t blood that coated her throat. It was something akin to blood, something a little less satisfying, but a reasonable substitute. Another drip fell onto her lips, onto her tongue, trickling into her throat. Then fingers were at her neck making long strokes, and reflexively she swallowed.

Stuhn’s Shield, that little bit was heavenly. So warm. So full of life. So energizing. And all she had to do was lie there, let it drip into her, let it rejuvenate her body, her mind, her self. She felt the souls of dragons stir within that place deep inside, her own soul trapped with them, and knew she would not be sleeping that deeper sleep just yet.

That was perfectly fine by her.

Vorstag kept a constant vigil over her, practically spoon-feeding her the potion, cooing to her and murmuring encouragement. He couldn’t be sure if she heard him, but some part of him simply wanted to talk to her, wanted to believe that she knew he was there. It took over an hour, but at last the vial was empty, her wounds looked to be closing, and her color was almost flushed. She was still asleep, however, and though he was reluctant to admit it, he was beyond tired himself. He set aside the empty bottle, stripped down to his loincloth, and climbed into bed beside her. Pulling the covers up over both of them, his arms held her close and he drifted off to join her in slumber.

* * *

Gerhild shivered. There was something firm and familiar before her, and instinctively she burrowed deeper within its warmth. A hand stroked her hair, brushing an errant lock back behind her ear, but she kept her eyes closed. She was tired as well as cold, and since she was obviously in bed, she figured she’d just stay there for a while and sleep.

That hand was back, tender and caring, and nudging her closer to wakefulness.

“Lemme sleep,” she moaned, maybe a little grumpy, pulling one leg up a little, tucking her body against another’s yielding muscles. Her cheek was resting on skin dusted with hair, and a steady heartbeat thrummed in her ear, soothing her.

A familiar chuckle—sounding greatly relieved—came from outside her cocoon. A hand stroked her shoulder beneath the blanket, and lips pressed into her hair, kissing the top of her head. She felt something twitch, something outside her body, and realized she was being held by someone, by a male if she correctly guessed what had twitched.

She was being held by Vorstag.

Sleepily she blinked her eyes open and lifted her head just far enough to register the underside of his jaw, the small curling end of his tattoo swirling in front of her vision. Vorstag, holding her, in bed, his neck so close…

Instantly she was awake and pushing herself to sit up, backing away from him. “No! Vorstag… ah, gods!”

“What is it?” he asked, sitting up, his alarm apparent. “What’s wrong?”

“I… oh, please, tell me I… I didn’t…” Words failed her. She knew she had been injured, severely, and shouldn’t have been able to recover this well this quickly, unless… She pulled her lip out from between her teeth and forced herself to ask, fearing the answer, “Please, I didn’t feed on you again, did I?”

That charming smile spread across his lips, flashing his white teeth, softening his brown eyes even further. “No, Gerhild, you and Serana have plenty of that potion, remember?” he asked, a relieved tone in his voice as he relaxed against the pillows and waited for her to remember.

Memory was coming back to her in bits and bobs, a little at a time and all of it disjointed. She knew she had been greatly injured, but her fingers at her shoulder found only smooth skin, not a gaping hole where Alduin’s teeth had pierced her through.

Serana had refused to leave her side, once they had the bow, feeling like a sister to her after all they had been through.

She had learned a new Shout, but Alduin had tried to get there and stop her.

She had fed off of Vorstag once, but that was months ago, not recently. This last time…

Her eyes flickered around the room, searching, only stopping when they found the empty red vial on a nearby table.

“You alright now?”

Simple question; complex answer. She shrugged her shoulders, a hand reaching up to push a few loose strands of hair away from her face. She was going to have to re-braid it before they left High Hrothgar. “As… as well as I can be. You?”

He nodded, looking at her intently. He lifted a hand, palm upwards, and held it out for her. She took it, somewhat sheepishly, and allowed him to pull her back into his embrace.

Already her body had cooled without constant resupply of heat from his body. As she lay next to him, her form was unresponsive, but his was patently reacting to her presence, to his stifled desire. His discomfort had to border on painful, yet he didn’t so much as shift to try to ease the strain.

She sighed, her fingers playing with the short strands of chest hair, knowing she was making things worse but unable to stop herself, “Oh, gods, Vorstag, this is messed up!”

“Sh…” he whispered into her hair, “Don’t worry. I’m here. It’s over now.”

“No…” she moaned, “It’s not over. It didn’t work. I… I don’t think I can do this…”

He didn’t try to speak or try to soothe her; he simply held her and let the words tumble from her lips and spill across his chest. She told him how she had reached the summit, and read the scroll within the time wound, and immediately upon learning the Dragonrend Shout, Alduin was there, attacking. She and Paarthurnax had fought him, and she used the Shout, and grounded him, and beat him, and then…

“I didn’t…” she mumbled, her lips brushing his skin as she spoke, “I couldn’t defeat Alduin.”

“I know. We saw him fly away…”

“He escaped, somewhere to the east, to the source of his power.” She looked up at Vorstag, her eyes full of despair. “I don’t know where he went, but I have to find a way to follow him, like with Miraak. Maybe, I can defeat him there, if I cut him off from the source of his power. Paarthurnax is going to think about it, try to figure out a solution, while we…”

He nodded with understanding, “While we go deal with the vampire threat. Sounds like a good plan.”

“You think it’ll work?” she asked, looking at him with such need for reassurance.

“Aye,” he said with all the confidence he could muster, “Even if it’s the only thing we can do, that doesn’t make it a bad plan. Now, if you’re rested, we should probably get ready and get dressed. By the way,” he tapped the tip of her nose, “Your hair’s a mess.”

“Everything’s a mess,” she agreed, “But you’re right. We should get going.” She didn’t want to—she’d much rather stay in bed for, say, an hour or so—but there wasn’t anything they could do during that time except make his torment worse. She kissed his tattoo and pulled away, scooting to the edge of the bed where she could sit up.

Immediately her hands were at her hair, lithe fingers working quickly without mirror or reference, pulling the ends of strands loose and allowing braid after braid to fall down her back. Vorstag shifted until he sat behind her, his fingers taking up a braid to unwind the locks, fully intending to help rather than hinder. She allowed it, even closed her eyes and enjoyed the sensation of his fingers picking at a snarl, draping an unbraided lock over her skin, massaging her scalp. When he could run his fingers through the full length of her hair, she sighed and opened her eyes again.

She started at the front, just to one side of the middle, gathering up more hair as she went towards the back. At the top of her scalp she stopped taking in more hair and finished braiding out what she had. Then she started another braid, a mirror image to the first. She continued, working her way down either side before coming across the back, adding more and more braids, their lengths dangling down to brush against Vorstag’s chest. He sat behind her and watched, his hands on her hips, fascinated by her efficiency.

She took the two highest braids and wound them around a few times before tucking the ends inside. Two more braids were pulled from the sides to behind her head, criss-crossing each other just beneath the first two, before their ends were tucked underneath as well. The next pair of braids were double-looped in the middle, before entwining with another set, thickening the loop. They were also tucked inside the previous braids… and that’s as far as he could follow. She continued with the rest of the braids, looping and twisting and tucking them into that intricate maze he knew so well, yet could never fathom.

Just like Gerhild herself.

“I’ll never understand how you do that,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around her after she had finished.

“You just saw me do it,” she protested, but didn’t pull away.

“Aye, I saw it,” he agreed, nuzzling at her ear, “Doesn’t mean I understand it.”

She shook her head slightly, but not too much, in case his stubble undid some of her hard work. “You need a shave. And I need new armor,” she sighed, having just spied her ruined Ebony armor lying in a destroyed heap near the wall.

Vorstag didn’t want to think about how strong Alduin truly was, if he could bite so cleanly through the hardest armor on the face of Nirn. “You thinking another set of Ebony?” he asked, rubbing at his stubbled cheeks as she stood and gazed forlornly at the battered cuirass. He supposed he had enough time to shave. After all, they had two weeks to reach the rendezvous, and if they were really pressed for time, Gerhild could always find a dragon and coerce it into giving them a ride.

She hummed a little, thinking out loud more than answering him, “Something harder…”

“What’s harder than ebony?” he asked, thinking he was being rhetorical.

“That which broke it.”

“What?”

“It’s an idea I have,” she started, almost looking like she had forgotten he was in the room. “Something… well… not sure if it would work… if it could work… I wanna talk with Eorlund about it first, but…” she would have blushed if her body was alive, “What about dragon armor?”

He blinked at her, standing and holding his sack, one hand still inside. “Dragon armor? You mean, armor made from the hides of dragons?” He shook his head, going back to rummaging for the small blade he used for shaving, “Gerhild, you know that the dragons sort of cremate themselves, after you kill them. How ya gonna get their hide off of them to make the armor?”

“Not their hide,” she turned to her own pack, thinking that she might as well put on her Daedric armor. She hadn’t intended to until they were at Castle Volkihar, but now she didn’t have a choice. “Their bones, scales, whatever is left of them that doesn’t get burned away. Those things have to be hard enough, to protect against other dragons, against swords,” she smirked when it looked like Vorstag remembered the time his own sword had bounced harmlessly off the head of a dragon. “That’s what I want my armor made out of. But… I don’t know if it can be done. Don't think anyone else has tried it…”

“Not like dragons have been around long enough for anyone else to think of it,” he gave in, walking up behind her to give her a kiss on her cheek. “But we’ll find out. After the vampires are taken care of, we’ll head to Whiterun and speak with Eorlund. You’ll probably want it before you try facing Alduin again, anyway, right?”

A tiny crease formed on her brow, but her face was turned away from him so he didn’t notice. “Right,” she sighed, lifting out a spare tunic and leggings. She wasn’t sure if she should go there before or after Alduin, as she still wanted to remain a vampire until after the ancient dragon was defeated. Though it would be awkward, going to Whiterun as a vampire, trying to convince Eorlund to make her armor out of dragon bones and scales…

But did she dare face Alduin again without the dragon armor?

* * *

10th Mid Year: 4E 205

“How many are left?” Thorald asked, tying a quick bandage around a slowly oozing wound on his upper arm.

“Us or them?” Vorstag asked, his focus on the last gargoyle. He and several others were spattering it with arrows. While it was distracted, a Dawnguard raced up to it and hammered into it with his shoulder. It took a step back, lost its balance, and toppled over the edge to shatter on the rocks below. Vorstag resisted the urge to cheer with the others, knowing they still had a lot of battle left to go. “Their side: no one’s left on the bridge, but we should find a score or more in the castle. It looks like we’ve gotta handful of casualties, but so far I think everyone will make it.” He craned his neck, but the other cove of the island was out of sight. “Can’t tell how Ralof and Avulstein are doing.”

“They’ll be fine. We’ll trust them to do their job,” he grunted as he gained his feet, “Just like they’re trusting us to do our job.”

“You alright?” Vorstag asked, taking his elbow.

“Aye,” Thorald muttered, “It’s only a scratch. There are other bastards worse off than me,” he nodded his head behind them towards the boats by the pier, where a few mages skilled in Restoration Magic were doing what they could for the wounded. It was difficult to heal throats that had been nearly ripped out, even with magic. “Come on, let’s get going. Dragonborn!” he cried, charging the gates with his crossbow raised.

Vorstag shook his head, thinking they were supposed to be rallying around the Dawnguard, but considering almost all the men and women here were current or former Stormcloaks, he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. He raised his sword, the Dwarven blade he had brought with him out of Blackreach, and charged with the rest.

The inside of Castle Volkihar was no better than the bridge; in fact, it was worse. The vampires in residence knew where all the nooks and crannies were, all the traps and pressure plates, and the mortals were stumbling in blind. Vorstag tried to regain some sort of order or control over them, but he lost another score of soldiers before they were able to regroup.

“This sucks.”

“Aye,” he answered Thorald, the two of them crouched behind a pillar. “Can’t anyone call that armored troll back to us?”

“I’ve tried,” answered Gunmar from nearby, “But the damn thing has his head. He’s not gonna stop until the death hound that bit him is dead.”

Vorstag swore softly, Gerhild’s ebony bow in his hands, a Nordic arrow ready to fire. Thorald stood at his side, a crossbow lifted and ready to aim. But there was nothing to aim it, the vampires either waiting in the darkness or worse, flanking them unseen from the surrounding shadows. “Isran!” he called, “We need Vampire’s Bane. Now!”

“Don’t give me orders…” he growled, not realizing how well his voice carried through the cavernous hall, or perhaps he did know. In a louder tone, however, he commanded, “Dawnguard! Second rank, cast Aura!”

As one, half of the Dawnguard that were with them cast the spell Stendarr’s Aura, encasing themselves in a sphere of light, warding off the darkness and hurting nearby undead. And revealing all those hiding in the shadows.

“First rank, cast Bane!”

The rest of the Dawnguard began to throw Vampire’s Bane, a projectile made of light that did damage to any vampire it touched similar to bright, full sunlight. There were several angry screeches as the balls of light found targets, now revealed by the others’ glowing auras. Thorald lifted his crossbow and fired several bolts into the closest revealed vampire.

“Just like shooting slaughterfish in a barrel!” he laughed, taking aim on a new target.

“Aye,” grunted Vorstag, letting loose an arrow into his own target, too worried to join in the rush of adrenaline the other was feeling. So far he hadn’t seen any sign of Gerhild or Serana, but he knew the two women were somewhere in the castle, and he wouldn’t feel right until he found them. The Dawnguard had been warned not to fire at anyone in Daedric armor, and that there was a female vampire on their side, but in the heat of battle, he didn’t trust them. “How’re you doing for bolts?”

“Plenty!” Thorald answered, firing again. “You?”

He reached behind to finger through the arrows in his quiver. “Enough to last until we start engaging them one-on-one.”

“Why wait?” he asked, beaming. With one hand he let go of his crossbow to hang from its strap, and unsheathed his sword with the other hand. “Dragonborn!”

The cry was taken up again, and the soldiers started moving, spreading out, cheering and firing and swinging as they pressed further into the dark and shadowy hallways of the castle. Vorstag raced with them, glad for the chance to bleed off his anxious energy while making progress towards Gerhild and Serana.

He knew approximately where to find them, as Serana had been fairly certain her father would be in the cathedral, and Gerhild had been able to give him directions to the room. He raced there now, not caring if anyone came with him, or if any vampires spotted him or chased him. He needed to be with Gerhild during this final confrontation. For once.

He heard a shout from behind him, but he didn’t bother to look. He turned a corner and nearly ran into a lowered portcullis. With a snarl for the wasted time, he lost several precious seconds searching for a way to open it. When he pulled the chain, he felt someone—or something—grab his shoulder. He turned his head and saw, out of the corner of his eye, glowing amber orbs and white fangs marred and glistening with gore. He didn’t think but acted, spinning the rest of his body around to pull the vampire off balance, and used the momentum to add force to his other arm as he brought up his sword and lopped off the hand gripping him. It roared in pain at him and grabbed his wrist with its other hand, pulling both hand and sword high above his head, lifting him off the ground and pushing him back against the wall. He fumbled at his waist, finding his dagger and jabbing it into the vampire’s neck before its fangs could reach him.

There was the sound of three bolts fired in quick succession. Vorstag grunted for the pain as two passed through his hand and into the vampire’s throat, the third bolt passing through the empty finger in his glove. Both he and the vampire collapsed to the ground.

“Shit!” Ralof came running up the passage, the crossbow still in his hands. “Is it dead?”

“Aye,” Vorstag pushed himself to his knees, dropping his sword to do so. He looked down at his hand, tacked to the undead’s throat, and swore softly. His blood was too heated from the fight to allow him to feel the pain. He looked critically at the slowly disintegrating vampire, and decided he didn't want to wait to get free. “You got your knife handy? Mine’s trapped.”

Ralof nodded grimly, without wasting time on apologies. They both knew he hadn’t intended to shoot Vorstag; and at least he was alive to recover and not dead with his throat ripped out. “What were you doing, running down this passage alone? If I hadn’t seen you and the vampire following you…”

Vorstag calmly watched him saw through the wooden shafts of the bolts just above the back of his hand, still wondering when he would start feeling the pain. “Gerhild’s down this way. I wanted to get to her as soon as possible.”

“You never did say for certain, but she’s the one in the Daedric armor, isn’t she?”

“Aye,” he allowed, “Don’t bother with that third bolt; just cut off the glove.”

“Forgot you lost the finger,” Ralof commented, tucking away his dagger. He grabbed Vorstag’s wrist and looked him in the eye, “On the count of three.”

“Three!” Vorstag gasped, jerking his hand up and off the bolts. The wooden shafts remained behind, held tight enough by the semi-disovled and graying flesh.

“Fuck,” muttered Ralof, “Give me a bit of warning next time.” He rummaged around in his pack and brought out a potion of healing. Vorstag waved it aside with a shake of his head, and reached beneath his cuirass to tear off a strip of cloth from his tunic. “You still going after her?” Ralof asked.

Vorstag nodded, wrapping the cloth around his bleeding hand, knowing it would hold until Gerhild could heal it with magic. Ralof took the ends from him to tie it securely, then took hold of his forearm to help him to his feet. Staring into his eyes, the Stormcloak General swore, “I’m coming with you.”

He thought about what waited beyond the opened portcullis, and gave his head a small shake, “Ralof…”

“I think I know what we’ll find,” he cut him off. “And I wish I could say I am surprised, but after some of the things she’s done…” his voice trailed away, trying hard not to remember Markarth. “Well, I suppose she was doing what she thought she had to do. Even if it was stupid.”

Vorstag took a deep breath, accepting his sword from him, grateful that it wasn't his sword hand that was damaged. “You know, you can’t speak of it, of whatever we find through there.”

Ralof nodded. “We’ve kept a lot of her secrets through the years, haven’t we. What’s one more?”

Vorstag didn’t answer; in his heart he knew that eventually the weight of all these secrets—all the minor discrepancies of all her separate personas—would grow too much for her to carry and would crush her. She needed… they needed a new life, a fresh start, without the extra bullshit that had grown like weeds, choking the life out of her. He silently turned from Ralof and walked through the portcullis.

On the other side, he pulled the chain to lower it again, not wanting anyone else to stumble across whatever was happening. The fewer people who knew about Gerhild’s condition, the better. Then side-by-side, the two men climbed the stairs that led towards the cathedral. The din of a fierce fight reached their ears, growing in volume the higher they went. At the top of the stairs, Ralof opened the doors, thinking that Vorstag had only one good hand. What they saw inside took their breath away.

The cathedral was dedicate to the Daedric Prince Molag Bal, an altar in the very center of the room filled and perpetually flowing with blood. Ralof only vaguely registered this, as he had become distracted by the gargoyles and skeletons swarming the room. Not to mention the lone vampire woman who seemed to be fighting them. “That the one on our side?”

“Aye,” Vorstag gave everything else the merest glance, his eyes searching for and finding Gerhild. Gods, he wished he could un-see what was before him. Large and gray, like hairless bats, wings without membranes, strangely formed heads with horns for manes. Two full vampire lords were fighting, hand-to-hand, fang-to-fang, grasping and snarling and ripping…

“Fuck!” The expletive dropped from Ralof’s mouth as the two battling vampires moved away from the side and towards the altar in the center. “That’s… that’s…”

“Aye,” Vorstag repeated himself. He stepped forward and with his sword chopped off the head of a skeleton.

“You’re early,” scolded Serana, “But thank you for the assist.” She blasted a gargoyle with a lightning spell. “Who’s your friend?”

Ralof took up his crossbow and began firing. “Ralof! Of Riverwood!”

“Serana,” she answered, flashing him a timid smile before commanding, “Duck!”

Ralof crouched, her lightning spell barely missing him as it hit the skeleton that had been sneaking up behind him. “Thanks!”

“What’s the plan?” Vorstag asked, swinging at a gargoyle this time. His other hand was throbbing, and he kept it pressed closely to his chest.

“Take out the gargoyles and skeletons,” Serana answered, taking a brief respite, “Leave my father to Gerhild.”

He could hear the emotional pain in her voice, bitter and angry, and he wisely dropped the conversation. There was enough going on, they didn’t need to speak, other than the occasional call for assistance or cry of triumph.

The battle raged on, Harkon managing to summon more and more minions to fight for him, though never enough to distract Gerhild from her goal of ripping out his throat and tearing off his head. Their battle moved throughout the room, sometimes coming close to where the others fought, sometimes disappearing as both Harkon and Gerhild became invisible. Never could Harkon get away from her, either a claw or a fang holding him close.

Eventually, however, even those two—even so absorbed in their death match—realized that there were others in the room. Harkon saw an opportunity, when a skeleton almost got the drop on Vorstag and Gerhild paused to cast a fire spell to save him. He carefully worked over towards him, and in a sudden burst of speed, pulled far enough away from Gerhild to reach Vorstag. He wrapped his limbs around him, pulling Vorstag around to stand in front of him and before Gerhild.

“Stop!”

Harkon’s voice echoed around the cathedral, the vaulted ceilings catching the sound and rattling it around only to blast it down, amplified, at the startled combatants. Gerhild roared in rage, her fangs gleaming in the dim light, her eyes a pair of soulless black voids. “Let him go!”

Harkon laughed, thinking he had the upper hand, feeling his triumph already. “No,” he drew out the word, sadistically enjoying the anguish twisting her features. “Give me Auriel’s Bow, or I rip his throat out.” He pressed the tip of one long talon into Vorstag’s neck, drawing blood, though thankfully not cutting into the artery. Yet.

Vorstag was amazingly calm. By all rights, he should be terrified, facing death, knowing his last sight on Nirn would be the look on Gerhild’s face, distorted by her vampiric powers, as his blood spurted out and drenched her. But he and Gerhild both knew something that Harkon either didn’t know, or had overlooked.

“Finish it!” Vorstag managed to croak around the clawed hand choking him.

It was a strange sight, no matter how familiar. Standing there as a vampire lord, Gerhild straightened up a little, pulled her shoulders back, and took a deep breath. Vorstag recognized the actions well, and held her gaze confidently as she Shouted, _“Yol Toor Shul!”_

Fire. Fire was everywhere. Fire as bright and as hot as the sun. The stream of fire burst forth from Gerhild’s mouth with the Shout, a spurt of flame that flew straight towards Harkon and his hostage. The amber tongues embraced their victim, wrapped around and fed hungrily on the undead flesh. There was barely time for one scream, before the clothing and meat were consumed leaving behind only the brittle bones.

After she ran out of breath, the flames stopped. There was a clatter of bones and heavy armor as Harkon’s remains fell to the floor and turned to ash. Vorstag, too, fell to the floor, tired and hurt and scared. And alive. Alive and unharmed by her Shout. He didn’t even glance at the pile of ash behind him as he pushed himself up to his knees.

Sucking air back into his half-starved lungs, he blinked to find Gerhild kneeling before him, changed once more into her more human form and wearing the Daedric armor. She ripped her helmet off to get a good look at him, one hand reaching out hesitantly to touch his shoulder. “You’re hurt.”

He had to laugh a little, whether from relief or exhaustion he couldn’t care to discern. “Not from the Shout, thankfully. Just my hand.”

She looked at the appendage, the soaked bandage dripping onto his lap. Without asking she cast a healing spell, closing the wounds and restoring the damaged muscles and nerves. The wound in his neck also healed, the cooling sensation rippling through his body and easing pains he didn’t know he had. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, bumping his helmeted head against her forehead. “I love that feeling…”

“Vorstag,” she moaned softly, gripping the back of his neck and holding him close, “You stupid Nord. What are you doing here?”

He shrugged, leaning away to reach his feet. “I hate it, ya know, every time you have to do one of these final battles to the death without me. Thought for once I’d come and help.”

“Don’t you mean, come and get yourself used as leverage against me?”

He shook his head, pulling off his helmet to reveal that shit-eating grin. “No, I helped this time. You and Harkon were at a stalemate. He thought holding me as a hostage would make you give in, but he didn’t know your Shouts won’t hurt me. So, you see? I helped you defeat him.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but couldn’t think of anything to say. She snapped it shut and tried again, and again had the same result. Finally Ralof’s laughter broke through her stymied thoughts. “Give up, Gerhild, he’s got you there.”

She would have responded with a biting comment, but saw the look on Serana’s face. No, this wasn’t the place for laughter and celebration, not when a daughter had to face her father’s death—even a father who had been bent on sacrificing her. Gerhild let the men have their little victory and cleared her throat. “We should get back and make sure the others are alright.”

They put on their helmets, sheathed their weapons, and two-by-two filed out of the cathedral and down the stairs. Vorstag held Gerhild’s hand, unwilling to let go, and it seemed she was just as unwilling. Though they were silent, Serana and Ralof carried on a quiet conversation behind them, getting acquainted, exchanging brief biographies. It would have been kind of touching, if Gerhild didn’t know the hopelessness of such a thought. Even she and Vorstag were facing nearly unsurmountable odds.

They entered the dining hall, where Isran was standing next to Avulstein, the two men talking and nodding their heads as they compared notes. Gerhild walked up to them and asked, “Are they all dead?”

Isran eyed her suspiciously, but Avulstein answered, recognizing her voice, “Aye, Dragonborn. We’ve done the tally twice. Every room except that cathedral you mentioned is cleared, and every vampire we found is dead. There are some men searching outside on the rocks, but so far nothing’s been reported. We found the thralls, too, and are loading them onto the ships. You still think they can be cured?”

“In time, perhaps,” she allowed, “All we can do is try. Where’s Thorald?”

Avulstein thumbed over his shoulder, “Outside, back with the mages. He got scratched a couple of times, nothing serious, but he was bleeding all over the place so I sent him outside.”

She nodded, not caring about Isran’s surly attitude. She led the small procession out through the main doors, the castle nearly empty of Stormcloak and Dawnguard soldiers, and completely empty of vampires now that she and Serana were outside. Gerhild stopped at the highest point on the bridge, Avulstein and Isran continuing down to the boats, both probably more than eager to leave the dreary castle behind them. She felt Vorstag standing beside her as she looked down over the men and women who had risked their lives to help her defeat Harkon and his insane plot to block out the sun. If they only knew of the sacrifices she had made…

Well, she knew of the sacrifices they had made, and that was important. Faces had begun turning towards her almost as soon as she had left the castle, more as Avulstein and Isran reached them. She drew her ebony war axe and held it above her head.

“I am Dovahkiin!” she cried, her voice empowered with her Thu’um, carrying out over the cliffs and rocks and sea.

The answering cheer of over four hundred voices was nearly as cacophonous.

As the ovation continued, Ralof leaned over and said softly into Serana’s ear, “So, what are you plans now?”

She gave a little shake, like she was coming out of a trance. “I… hadn’t thought about it. This place has always been my home, for as long as I can remember, but…” her voice faded away, her thoughts returning to her father’s ashes.

“You… you can’t stay here,” Ralof protested. “The other vampires are dead. You’d be all alone.”

Serana sighed, turning to look at him, “I’ve been all alone for most of my life, or un-death, if you prefer to call it that. This will be no different. Perhaps I will sleep again. Or join my mother in the soul cairn.”

“Maybe,” Vorstag began, but wasn’t sure if he could or should continue. Serana had always been touchy about her vampirism. When Gerhild nudged his shoulder with hers, he tried again, “Maybe you could be cured.”

She looked at him, anger flaring in her amber eyes.

“It’s a possibility,” Gerhild added, speaking softly and lowering her weapon, “One we’re going to look into soon.”

“Next,” affirmed Vorstag. When Gerhild’s helmet twitched towards him, he pressed his hand. “It’s over, Gerhild. Harkon is defeated. And the vampirism didn’t help against Alduin. Aye, I know he couldn’t kill you, but it made you too reckless, allowed you to let yourself take too much damage. If you hadn’t made it down the mountain back to us and the potions, you would’ve failed. It’s time to give this up. Morthal isn’t that far away; let’s go and get you cured. Now. Tonight.”

Gods, it was tempting—too tempting. And though Vorstag had just seen her at her worst, he hadn't give up on her. He stared at her now with his soft, puppy-dog brown eyes, begging her to give in to his plea. “Aye,” she breathed, taking his hand in hers, unable to believe how easily he could persuade her, “Tonight.”

The four started for the boats, intending to join the others and leave the island. Serana, however, had one more comment. She stopped Gerhild and held them back from the others to ask, “Gerhild, if… if it works… if you find a cure… would you… would you let me know of it?”

Vorstag and Ralof turned around to look back at them. “Aye, I will,” Gerhild nodded. “Where will you be?”

“In Riverwood,” Ralof answered, “With me. That is, if you’d like to come see it. I’ve got some leave I’ve been meaning to take, and thought I’d visit my sister there, in Riverwood, for a little while. You could come with me.”

Serana looked at him for several heartbeats, until he started to squirm and shift from foot to foot, before she finally answered, “I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks on this one (again) to Bugs for unwittingly defining Gerhild’s intricately braided hair. I could only dream of it vaguely, but she brought it to life! I hope my humble verbal description does justice to her hard work. (I know, Bugs, you didn't intend to recreate her hair, but what you did looked so good, I had to steal it) ;D *hugs*


	29. Time to Live

Northwest of Morthal, surrounded by the swampland is a strange, ancient structure, the stones rotted by time, the purpose lost beneath the weight of forgotten memories. Some say it is the impenetrable burial mound of a primeval, pre-Nordic king. Some say it was once used to measure the time and seasons by marking the position of the sun. Some say it was part of a castle that fell into the swamp.

Falion called it a summoning circle, a place where the walls between realities fade, where doorways are opened and prehistoric, extraterrestrial powers can be used once more.

Vorstag didn’t give a fuck what it was called, as long as it worked to cure Gerhild of vampirism. It was dawn, the sun just rising over the horizon. Gerhild stood alone within the circle, her Daedric armor swallowing the growing light. Falion, the mage in Morthal who did indeed study the undead, stood just without the ring of crumbling arches, his hands raised theatrically as he intoned some nonsense about Oblivion and souls. Vorstag was relegated to a place even further back, where he could do nothing but pace and chew his knuckle. He had been threatened with restraints until he promised not to interfere, no matter what happened or what he thought might happen. Listening to Falion’s overly-dramatic summons, watching Gerhild sway as she felt the rays of the sun touch her, not knowing what was going to happen next…

Vorstag drew blood, the little red drops looking brown in the early light.

Suddenly a sphere of blackness engulfed her, pulling her from sight. She cried out, and as swiftly as it came it was gone. Then she was falling… falling to her knees… slumping over to collapse to the stones… spinning through a void…

“It is done!” Falion proclaimed, dropping his arms. “You can approach her now.”

Vorstag was already pushing past him, having started forward as soon as she cried out—promise or no promise! He caught her as she crumbled to the ground, his strong arms supporting her, bringing her onto his lap. “Gerhild?” he whispered, tugging off her helmet, no longer caring if Falion recognized her. As it happened the mage had already turned to leave, his work done and wanting nothing more to do with them.

“Gerhild?” he called again, a little louder. Finally remembering they weren’t alone, he glanced around and spied Falion returning to Morthal. The man wasn’t running, but he was moving away as quickly as politeness allowed. Vorstag didn’t care, dismissing him from his mind and focusing solely on what was most important.

“Gerhild?” He touched her cheek and felt the flesh was warm beneath his fingertips. He looked at her neck, and saw the slight fluttering of a pulse beneath her skin. He stroked it, fascinated, reveling in the feel of LIFE returned to his love.

He looked back up to her eyes, his touch reviving her. A tiny crease formed between her eyebrows, a soft mewl of protest breathed out between her lips. He bent over and kissed her, her bow-shaped lips responsive, her breath—she was breathing!—mingling with his. He felt more than heard the sigh of contentment hummed against him. When he leaned away, he watched in rapt attention as her eyelids fluttered open…

Deep violet pupils surrounded by a sea of white stared unfocused at the new day.

“I’d forgotten what it felt like, having to keep breathing.”

He gave a small laugh, not really sure what was funny, more from relief than anything else. His fingertips were on her cheek, her lips, her nose, her eyebrows, everywhere at once and nowhere in particular. She blinked once more and her eyes focused on his face.

“Hi.”

There was that impulse to laugh again. “Hi,” he answered, and then added, “Happy birthday.”

“What?” she asked, slightly confused, feeling like she had to kickstart her mind into gear. “Oh, it is the sixteenth of Mid Year, isn’t it?” She blinked again, then gave a little laugh. “You just had to show me up with your birthday present, didn't you.”

Those two perfect dimples were there, marring her cheeks, and a twinkle of dawn light sparked in her eyes. He couldn’t help it, the stress and worry and adrenaline and… everything… of the past few months draining away before those deep violet orbs. He laughed, lips pulling wide to flash his white teeth, an answering smile stretching her own lips.

He kissed her again. Her eyes closed, only to enjoy the sensation more. Her hand combed his hair, pulling it away from where it had gotten snagged in the corner of their kiss. It tickled, but he didn’t stop kissing her, needing to taste her, needing to claim her as his own. It was her first kiss in her new life, and he wanted it to be perfect.

She had to break it off, however, a smile on her lips as she turned her head slightly. He pursued, but she brought her other hand up, pressing the cold Daedric gauntlet against his thin lips. “I need to breathe again, remember?”

“I’ll be every breath you need,” he vowed.

“What about food?” she asked, her eyes still sparkling.

“What?”

“I… I’m hungry,” she announced, trying to sit up.

He laughed again, too joyous to even try to hold it inside. There really was no reason to suppress it; there was only the two of them. “If I had a kitchen, I’d cook you a feast.” He helped her to her feet, still grinning and staring and so very thankful she was alive again.

She looked around them as she tugged off her gauntlets, trying to get used to normal vision again, her brow scrunched against the brightening sunlight and the distance. “There,” she pointed with her chin to the southwest, her hands fumbling at her sides.

Vorstag turned away to follow her direction, and in the distance could see a fort, rising up on top of a small hill. “What’s there?”

“Fort Snowhawk,” she answered. “Should be garrisoned by Stormcloaks, now that the war is done. But most importantly,” those impish dimples flashed again as he turned back towards her, “They have a kitchen.”

“You really are hungry.”

It wasn’t a question, but she answered it anyway, “Aye.” Gerhild finished undoing the last buckle and began working the cuirass open until she could shrug out of it.

“What are you doing?” he asked, a little alarmed. Quickly he looked around them, but no one was in sight, not even Falion.

“I… I’ve gotta get out of this armor,” she answered. “I… don’t like… the feel of it on my skin.” She finally got the cuirass off, dropping it to the ground just within the circle of stones. She took a couple of steps until she could lean against one of the stronger looking pillars, bending over to work on her boots, her leggings stretching tight across her butt, the armhole of her sleeveless tunic showing the side of a pale breast.

He practically groaned with frustration. She presented such a perfect target… but a quick and rough fuck out in the middle of a swamp was not how he wanted their reunion to culminate. A fort full of Stormcloaks wasn’t ideal either, from a privacy standpoint, but it was a better option than dank and bug infested marshes. “You, ah, can’t go walking around like that, ya know.”

She stood still a moment, her eyes closed, one hand resting on the pillar, her bare toes squishing in the sulfureous muck. She hummed questioningly, her head tilted, as if she was listening to something.

He came up beside her, setting a hand on her shoulder. “Gerhild, is everything alright?”

She opened her eyes, and he was relieved to see they were still deep blue. He had feared, when she started acting strangely, that the cure didn’t take or something went wrong. Seeing her eyes were normal at least, he set aside that worry. But something was the matter, her expression thoughtful and slightly bewildered.

“Aye,” she answered him, “It’s fine, I’m fine, just… different.” Her eyes came back into focus, found him staring at her, his own eyes full of concern with a slight tinge of fear. She reached up to cup his cheek, stroking the swirls of his tattoo, trying to find a way to reassure him, to describe to him what she was feeling. “It’s… my soul…”

He swallowed, “You did get it back, didn’t you? I mean, you didn’t end up with the soul from that black gem, or one of the dragons’ souls…” he referred to the way they had tricked Falion. The mage had explained that they needed a soul, a human soul, to replace the one she lost when she was changed into a vampire. Her plan had been to ignore the soul from the black gem when Falion tried to graft it to her, and instead slip her own soul back into place. She had been confident she could accomplish it, and Vorstag had no choice but to trust her, yet it had sounded so risky.

“No, no,” she assured him, “I got my own soul back. But… it’s changed.” Her voice trailed away, her thoughts deep as she considered this unanticipated complication.

“How ‘changed’?” he asked. “I mean, you are still you, aren’t you?” By the Nine, that wouldn’t be right, to get her back only to find she wasn’t herself any longer.

She nodded, “Fairly sure. But… it was trapped for so long, with those dragon souls, I think… I might’ve picked up a few… well, let’s say my perspective may have changed a little.” Her eyes focused on his face again, and she saw he didn’t understand. “I’ve said before, my emotions have always been so strong, so overwhelming, that I’ve tried to deny them, bury them…”

“Aye,” he interrupted her, “I think I’ve noticed that once or twice.”

She gave him a small smile, “Well, that’s what’s changed. I… I don’t know how else to explain it, but these emotions… I feel them… but they don’t… they don’t overwhelm… they don’t control me… they don’t scare me… Does this make any sense?”

He placed his hand over hers, only in part because her stroking was making his tattoo itch again. “Nope,” he answered honestly, “Not one bit. But that’s alright. I’ve never been able to understand everything about you—don’t think I ever will—and I’m alright with that. Because I love you, I accept you, just the way you are.”

Her smiled deepened, the love warming her heart. It didn’t drown her like before, or maybe it did drown her, but this time she wasn’t afraid of drowning. She mentally shook her head, not caring any longer to try to figure it out, to try to explain it—because he loved her. And she loved him. “Let’s get going then. I’m starving, and the thought of you cooking me a feast is making my mouth water.”

He rolled his eyes, “Gerhild, you can’t go walking around in a sleeveless tunic, leggings, and bare feet,” he pointed out.

She looked down at herself, a little startled to see his description of her appearance was correct. “Oh! Ah, where’s my pack? I think I have a spare dress in there, and some soft boots.”

Again he glanced around as she negligently stripped, but there was no one to see them, except maybe a mudcrab—it could’ve been a rock. He tried not to watch, digging around in his own pack for a bite of something to tide her over until later.

“You are so silly,” she said lightly, coming up behind him and wrapping her arms around his waist. He was thankful to see they were covered in a light linen fabric of a soft blue. “You have seen me naked before, remember? And I’m fairly sure you’ll see that again, in the near future.”

Gods, the promise in that statement. “Aye, but if I keep watching you strip, it’ll be sooner, not later. And this is no place for that. So,” he reached over his shoulder and stuffed a chunk of cheese into her mouth, “I turned away before I lost control of myself.”

She made a quiet noise around the mouthful, sounding interested, her hand coming up to catch the cheese that wouldn’t fit into her mouth. “That’s something I’d like to see,” she said archly, bending over at the waist to pick up her pack before she started walking towards the fort, “Vorstag out of control.”

He growled, playfully, and started after her. She laughed, quickening her pace to stay ahead of him. They chased each other all the way to the fort.

She was out of breath by the time they reached the front gate, her mouth opened wide for air as well as for her smile, what little she could inhale quickly escaped her through laughter. It was up to Vorstag to answer the guard’s hail. “Good day! I’m Vorstag of Markarth. This is Lady Gerhild North-Wind…”

“Of Skyrim,” a new voice finished. “Aye, I know her, and you.”

The Captain of the fort walked out through the open archway, a large smile plastered on his face. Gerhild recognized him, but again it was Vorstag who answered, “Who are you, friend? You sound like someone I know, but…”

The man nodded, smiling warmly. He held out his hand as he said, “Name’s Vidrald. I was with Avulstein when, well, he went to find his brother…” His voice trailed away, suddenly unsure if Vorstag would appreciate having such a memory brought to mind.

Vorstag's charming smile was all the encouragement Vidrald needed. “Aye, that explains why the voice is familiar, but not the face. Good to meet you, Vidrald.” He took the offered forearm in the Nordic fashion, and everything was smoothed over.

“You’re the Captain here?” Gerhild finally managed to speak, walking between the two men as they entered the courtyard.

“Aye,” he answered, “For about three months now. Been working to repair the old fort, clean it up a bit, keep some of these lazy good-for-nothings occupied between wars.” He looked at her askance, “So, what brings you two here?”

She slipped her arm around Vorstag’s as they entered the main part of the building. “We’re in need of a few supplies, and were in the area, so we decided to stop by.”

“Oh? The fort is, of course, at your disposal, Lady Dragonborn. What do you need?" His voice said her title quietly, letting them know he knew...

Gerhild shrugged aside the subterfuge. Too many people were finding out her real identity, and she was beginning not to care any longer. "First,” she tugged on Vorstag’s arm, “A warm meal.” He tugged back, pulling her off balance, but she quickly recovered. “Then, a room to spend the night. In the morning, we’ll need horses and fresh supplies.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” he dropped his voice, conscious of how sound echoed inside the stone hallways. “Could I ask, how did you get here? I mean, there’s hardly any travel dust on you, yet you must’ve come quite a ways, unless you just came from Morthal, but I thought you had gone with the Dawnguard to fight the vampires…”

“Peace, Vidrald,” she said, laying a hand on his forearm. “There are plenty of things I can’t talk about, but I will tell you what I can, while Vorstag is cooking.”

“You’re not gonna let that go, are you?”

“A promise is a promise,” she stubbornly teased. “I found you a kitchen; now you cook me a feast.”

He grimaced and looked to Vidrald. “How many men do you have here?”

“Fifty, give or take,” was the answer.

Vorstag grunted but shrugged. “Better get started then.”

Gerhild and Vidrald sat at one of the wooden tables while Vorstag commandeered the hearth and pantry, and two assistants to help him cook. Though the fire was barely adequate to warm the stone walls of the vaulted room, it was sweltering right in front of the hearth. Before he started cooking, he set his helmet and gauntlets with his pack beside hers. At the end of the first hour, he stripped off his cuirass to join the rest of his armor. Inside the second hour, his padded under tunic followed.

Gerhild exchanged news with Vidrald, telling him about the vampires while he told her about recent happenings within the Hold. She tried to pay attention, truly she did, but Vorstag was distracting her again, damn it. After a while, Vidrald gave up and left, offering some excuse about overseeing the work on the west wall. She absently waved an acknowledgment, her head turning to watch Vorstag before Vidrald had stood up from the table.

She loved the play of the firelight against his skin. Tiny beads of sweat formed at his hairline, increasing until they grew too heavy, gravity taking hold and pulling them downwards. Like snowballs on a mountainside, the beads picked up more moisture as they rolled down his neck, across his shoulders, his arms and back. The waistband of his padded leggings was soaked, his hair matted to his scalp, but he continued to work, turning a haunch on the spit, stirring the contents of a pot, pulling away a sheet full of braided loaves of bread before they burned.

He tasted whatever was in one pot, made a face and went over to the pantry to quickly chop up some garlic and elves ear. As he returned he caught her eye, gave a small smile and a wink, but kept his focus on the food and directing his assistants. The smells were warm and comforting, filling her nostrils with a delicious aroma and making her stomach growl loudly with anticipation. But she remained sitting, content to rest after all they’d been through and simply watch him toil away the afternoon.

Supper couldn’t have come fast enough, in everyone’s opinion. As Vorstag served his tomato soup, cabbage stew, venison chops with thick gravy, and roasted pheasant with grilled leeks, he positively beamed with the cheers and praise coming from the starving masses. He also set out platters of goat cheese and braided bread, and on a sideboard several snowberry crostatas and a tray piled high with sweet rolls were waiting to be devoured for dessert.

Gerhild consumed her fair share, feeling like she had never eaten before in her life—which was almost true, if she thought about it. She saved a seat next to her for Vorstag, who finally got to sit down after half the food was already gone. He managed to fill his plate once, which he said was plenty because of all the tasting he’d done while cooking. As dessert was being devoured, several soldiers took turns standing up and performing for everyone’s entertainment, singing, dancing, playing instruments—for once Vorstag declined to even get up and dance. It was a regular celebration, a party; and with Vorstag’s arm around her waist, leaning back into his hairy chest, Gerhild couldn’t have been happier.

“Happy birthday,” he whispered into her ear, ticking the hairs that had worked loose from her braid.

She smiled and squirmed a little, her ass grinding against his lap, but grew confused when she didn’t feel a reaction to her closeness. “Is everything alright?” she asked, looking up at him.

“Aye,” he paused to sip at his mead, “Why do you ask?”

“I thought you might be too tired, after the night and the day we’ve had…” she ran her hand up his thigh, beneath the table and out of sight of the others, until she found his groin and the semi-hard lump of his cock, “It seems like you’re, ya know, unable to get up…?”

Even if she hadn't been groping him wantonly, the challenge was more than enough to stimulate a reaction. He slammed his mug down on the table, nearly missing the edge. “Vidrald,” he called out, motioning to the Captain with his free hand while urging Gerhild to her feet. “Vidrald, it’s been a long day, and we’re pretty tired. Where’s that room you promised us?”

Vidrald almost managed to fight off the knowing smirk. “Down the passage there, on the left. Come on and I’ll show you.” He picked up their packs as Vorstag picked up his armor, Gerhild following at his side. “I’ll give you my room for the night.”

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” Gerhild tried to decline, “Just an extra storeroom with a couple of cots and a door would serve us well enough.”

“No, I won’t hear of it,” he waved aside her objections. “Especially after all the two of you have been through. The room’s private, with a stout door and a sturdy lock.” She refrained from rolling her eyes; the man was painfully obtuse when it came to what he thought the two of them wanted a room for. Not that he was wrong, just fairly inept at hiding it. “I even had a bath prepared,” he finished with a flourish, opening the door.

Aye, he was obvious. She wondered if they were obvious, too, but then decided she didn’t care. “Thank you, Vidrald.”

He set their packs down on a dresser and nodded before he left.

Vorstag dropped his armor in a corner, not caring about the noise or the mess. He stretched, his muscles straining beneath his skin and his joints popping, “Ah, gods, that feels good.”

“Looks good, too,” she hummed in agreement, slipping out of her soft boots.

“What was that?” he asked, turning around to face her. He saw her standing beside the copper tub, her hands behind her back as she undid the stays of her dress. The position caused her breasts to push outward, threatening to burst from the low neckline, especially as the dress grew loose around her lithe frame.

“I said,” she took a step towards him, but staying near the tub, her eyes sweeping up and down his form, “That. Looks. Good.”

Yup, there was no mistaking that hungry look in her eyes. Vorstag felt heat rush to his groin, and cursed the restriction there. With very little effort he kicked off his boots and stalked towards the bath, not bothering to get out of his leggings before he reached her. He claimed her mouth for his own, his hands behind her and pulling her into him, molding her form to his. She melted against his body, her arms snaking around his neck, keeping him close.

That scent was there. Not the lavender of the soap she preferred, or even her natural musky sweat, but the underlying smell of dragons. Gods, how he’d missed that particular smell, the danger and adrenaline it brought to mind. The fear and excitement. The woman. He hadn’t been able to enjoy the smell of it while she had been a vampire, the uneasy scent of a fresh corpse or spilled blood had always underlined her other scents. But it was back now, and with a vengeance, assailing his nostrils, filling his lungs, remarking him as her territory from the inside out.

Gerhild had her own senses assaulted by his scent, the vinous mixture of mead and juniper and leather and sweat. It was like a toxic gas, cutting off the oxygen to her brain and making her head spin. And it was addictive, reawakening a long-buried desire to have it nearby always in case she should ever need it…

His lips pulled away from hers, causing a little whimper of protest to escape her chest. He laughed softly, knowing she was his as surely as he was hers. His hands on her shoulders, his fingers bunching the loose fabric of her dress, he asked her again. “Marry me.”

“Aye,” she responded without hesitation. “But not tonight.”

“Tomorrow.”

She smiled, thinking she was being teased. “With no temple or priest? That would hardly be a wedding.”

He thought about their plans, and amended, “As soon as we get to Whiterun, then.”

This time she did hesitate, realizing he was serious. “You know how I feel about it, Vorstag,” she laid a hand against his tattooed cheek.

“I’m not asking for babies,” he pressed, “I’m only asking for you. Marry me. Give me your self, before any more time is wasted.” He dropped down to his knees, his hands at her hips, “I’m begging you, Gerhild, please, just marry me for now. Later, after everything else, then we’ll discuss children or whatever. But for the immediate future, for the next few months, while you and Eorlund make your Dragon armor, before you have to leave…” he stopped, not wanting to bring up Alduin tonight of all nights! “Please, give me that time, as husband and wife.”

When he looked up at her like that, his eyes so soft a brown, his brows scrunched pleadingly, his thin lips wanting to pout like a little boy… “Aye,” how could she say no? “We’ll marry when we get to Whiterun.”

The transformation was miraculous, the smile that spread across his face, the light in his eyes, the small cry of triumph. It was contagious, too, the joy spreading to her and making her laugh. He stood up, his hands still at her hips, lifting her with him, lifting her off her feet, spinning her around and around. She laughed again, unable and unwilling to hold the joy—the LOVE—inside.

She was bent over his head, her arms braced on his shoulders, her legs wrapping around his hips. Slowly he stopped spinning, though not from dizziness so much as from distraction, her body so tantalizingly near yet still covered by fabric. Looking up at her looking down at him, she took his breath away. He staggered; she giggled. He growled; she purred. The next moment he had her back to the wall, his hands delving beneath her skirts. Stuhn’s Shield, this wasn’t the way he wanted tonight to start, but it was either this, or he was going to soil his leggings.

“Vorstag…?”

He didn’t answer verbally, wasn't sure he could form a coherent sound just then, his need building to the point of becoming painful. Whatever body language he spoke, she seemed to understand, not protesting or fighting him, but shifting between him and the wall to make for a better angle. For not the last time he blessed her propensity for forgoing small-clothes, and worked on freeing himself. The leggings were easy enough to shove down onto his hips; it was the codpiece beneath that gave him the most trouble. He felt her shudder with suppressed humor after the damn thing finally fell to the floor with a clatter. Next the loincloth was tugged to the side, and then he was thrusting inside her.

Gods, it felt so good, so right. How long had it been since that night on the Northern Maiden? A year? A year-and-a-half? The act was selfish—he knew it—but it could not be helped. Part of him felt guilty for rutting like an animal, like a stud after a bitch in heat, desperate and harsh and primal. He knew he’d make it up to her, was sure she knew it too, but that didn’t affect the tidal wave of desire driving his actions.

The only saving grace was that it was over quickly. Perhaps too quickly, but he didn’t let himself dwell on that, either. His motions staggered to a crawl, his sweaty face buried in her shoulder, too ashamed to look up and see her reaction.

“Don’t…” she panted, and he became aware at last of her own movements, “…don't stop… ah… please…”

He knew that tone, had heard her beg him before, to touch, to kiss, to release the mounting passion. He started again, kissing a breast through her dress, one hand now between them at an awkward angle. His fingers delved into that triangle mass of hair, light and flitting across that little nub, that tiny core of passion. It didn’t take long—apparently she was just as starved and frustrated as he had been—before she trembled around his cock still within, her whole body practically vibrating like an over-taut lute string that’s been plucked too hard.

He heard the thud as her head struck the wall.

She wasn’t hurt or even dazed, not from the blow anyway. Her body did feel overly warm, her dress heavy, her skin tingling with gooseflesh. Even with her eyes closed, even as she desperately tried to hold on to that glowing post-moment, she knew he was moving, shifting their bodies, setting her on her feet, supporting her in his arms.

“Gerhild?”

She made some small sound, still focused on the buzzing in her head. At least she was keeping her feet.

“Sorry about that.” His fingers were in her hair, digging through her braids, massaging her scalp, looking for any bumps or bleeding.

“Don’t apologize. That was…” she paused to laugh at herself, “Well, in my limited experience, that was one of the better ones. It definitely felt good.”

“Good?”

“Aye,” she nodded, his hands moving with her, “Very good.” She opened her eyes at last, saw the little bit of red spread over his cheeks, and teased, “Ya know, this is the first time in a long time, that I’ve seen you blush.”

He narrowed his eyes, but seeing the impish smile on her lips, he affected a pout and affirmed, “I’m not blushing. I’m flushed with passion.”

She allowed it, whether or not it was true, feeling boneless and weak. But not tired; sleep was the farthest thing from her mind right then. “The bath,” she said the first thing that popped into her thoughts.

“What?” he asked distractedly, trying to pull his fingers from her hair without undoing every single braid.

“Is the water still warm?”

He made a face, “I’m sure it is. I didn’t take that long to finish.”

She grabbed his wrist before he could get away. “I finished too, ya know, fairly quickly.” Now the red was spreading over her cheeks. He touched them, just to let her know he noticed, but he didn’t comment.

“I think a bath would be a good idea.”

“Who’s first?” she asked, though she was eying the tub, anticipating him to be his usual gallant self and let her use it.

“Why take turns?” he nuzzled at her neck. He felt her sharp intake of breath, imagined the one delicate eyebrow climb her forehead, and heard the anticipatory resonance in her exhale. Aye, she was a fast learner.

He leaned away from her, his hands starting at her shoulders, pushing her dress off her body. She allowed it, her face tilted upwards, watching him with interest, the little gears in her head spinning with plans. He supposed he was going to pay for his quick start after all, but judging by the private smile tugging at a corner of her mouth, he was going to enjoy paying for it.

The dress fell to the floor with a gentle rumple, and she delicately stepped out of it. When his hands returned to her neck to unfasten her Amulet of Stendarr, she started on his leggings, tugging them the rest of the way off his hips, giving them an encouraging push towards his feet.

She nearly shook her head in amazement, seeing as his shaft was half-hard and nearly ready for the second round. She undid the knotted fastenings of the loincloth, completely removing the article of clothing, exposing every inch of his skin to the air.

He made a sound, somewhere between a moan and a whimper, his fingers now working on her braids. He wanted her hair down, loose and flowing around them both in the water, but was unable to verbalize his desire. She understood, reaching up to unwind her hair, her hands behind her head. The position thrust her chest forward again, and he took the opportunity to weigh those pale breasts in his hands, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive nipples. In the back of her mind, she wondered if he had done that on purpose, gotten her into this pose just so he could take advantage of her. When he bent his mouth down to suck and lick and tease, she gave up caring.

She reconsidered her hairstyle, deciding on the spot that there were too many braids taking too long, giving him too much unreciprocated time with her body. She wanted to run her hands over his shoulders, trace the scars on his chest, count the freckles across his back. She wanted to taste and nibble and suck and rub and stroke and…

Vorstag picked her up, breaking into her thoughts, making her want to laugh. Quickly she finished the last braid as he, still carrying her like he did when he fucked her against the wall, walked over to the tub. He lifted one leg and carefully stepped in, not wanting to lose his balance and tumble them both half in, half out of the tub. She kept still, fighting the urge to squirm and wiggle wantonly against his front, and he succeeded in bringing his other leg inside. Then he slowly sat down, the water cooled but not uncomfortable.

The tub was narrow, though long and deep, making their positioning a little bit of a challenge. Water splashed out as she tried to settle on his lap facing him, before shifting around to face away from him. In the end he had to hang a leg outside the tub, just so they could both fit.

She leaned back against his chest, her hair a heavy damp sheet between them. His hands reached around, each of them playing with a breast, teasing and tweaking her nipples. She squirmed, pressing her backside harder onto his thigh, and felt his cock bob in the water against her ass cheek.

“We forgot the soap,” she sounded a little petulant, thinking that one of them would have to step out for it, and she was better positioned for such a task, but she really didn’t want to leave him.

Vorstag looked around blearily, hard to focus when so much loveliness was at hand, but he was glad he did so. “Someone thought ahead,” he let go of one breast to reach over to the nearby chest, snatching the course chunk of soap. “It’s not lavender scented…”

“It’s clean,” she headed him off, turning sideways to him. “That’s what I want. To be clean. To wash off the last of the vampirism, the Daedric armor, the taint and stain of these past several months…” She made to take the bar from him, but he wouldn't have it. So many times he had fantasized about this, he wasn’t going to let her out of it now.

She tilted her head, but she didn't fight him, trusting him, immediately sensing that he had his reasons for not relinquishing the soap. Later, she was so very glad she had let him have his way. He made her shift around again until she was facing him, backing as far away as possible so she could close her eyes and relax and enjoy the attention. He started with her feet and worked his way slowly up her body. His touch was firm, strong, doing his best not to tickle but to massage, working the suds between her toes, rubbing circles over the balls of her feet, pressing his thumb into her instep, long fingers stroking her heels.

Of course he didn't stop at her feet, working his way up, one leg at a time, first to the ankles, then to the knees, then to the thighs. She squirmed when his fingers left her legs to caress the tender, sensitive skin of her groin. He teasingly slipped through the dark golden hair, coming close to but not touching that tiny core, before he gripped her waist and spun her back onto his lap, her back to his front.

She was like clay in his hands, molded and sculpted into whatever form or position he desired. He rubbed the hard chunk of coarse soap over the soft skin of her ass, making her squirm and send ripples through the water. He brought the soap up her back, riding the ridges of her spine, his fingers spreading the suds out across the taut skin. He had to pull a heavy drape of her hair out of the way, plopping it over her shoulder, so he could finish massaging the muscles there. He found a knot beneath her right shoulder blade, didn’t even wonder why she never complained about it, and spent the next several moments working it loose.

He heard her take in a deep breath, and knew she was beginning to feel her desire mounting. His hands slipped around to her front, spreading across her upper chest before, with a firm yet gentle touch, he made her relax against him. She made that little noise, something akin to a coo, her lips parted slightly but her eyes fully closed. Her head lolled backwards onto his shoulder, her arms floating lazily in the water, her throat exposed submissively. He bent down and gave it a gentle nip, just to let her know that he did indeed claim her for himself.

He got his hands as soapy as he could, and let the bar drop somewhere into the tub. Then he began working on her front, looking down at her body as he lathered her throat, her collarbone, her pectorals. She squirmed a little when his fingers returned to those heavy breasts, knowing there were no muscles there to massage, but he gave them due attention anyway. He spread his hands across her ribs, down her abdomen, over her hips.

Then he was searching for the soap again, making her groan with frustration. She wanted him to touch her THERE, to tease and excite and bring her desire to fruition. Instead he made her scoot forwards until she could dunk her head, wetting her hair from scalp to ends. His long fingers in her hair, lathering the locks, working out the snarls and sweat and debris, made her breath catch in her throat, her heart skitter through its beats.

Gods, she was beautiful, he couldn’t help thinking to himself. He watched the golden strands spread like a sunrise as she rinsed off, almost perfectly matching another fantasy of his from so long ago. All too soon she was pulling her head upwards, the water spilling off of her in a cascade as she turned to face him.

She didn’t speak, but the look on her face was enough communication. He reached out, she took his hand. Again he put her on his lap, facing away, his lips to the sensitive skin behind her ear as his hands trailed lower beneath the water.

She moaned, wanting to throw her head back and Shout, at the same time wanting to continue watching what he was doing. The watching won out, and she followed his movements through the murky water, barely able to see a shadow here, a ripple there, but able to feel everything he was doing, everywhere he was touching.

She knew he was fully ready again, could feel his shaft pressing against her back, so thick and swollen like a stake. Yet he didn’t press in like he did earlier, his fingers—ah, gods, he had such long fingers!—performing their expert dance across her skin. He burrowed through her hair, delved lower, touched her where only, as only, he could touch her. Then his fingers slid even lower, spreading her wide and delving inside the warm and wet softness.

One finger.

Two fingers, his thumb making small circles just above.

Three fingers, and she pivoted over the edge.

He felt her shudder within his embrace, one arm around her chest and cupping a breast, the other down where he could feel the full force of her desire ripping through her. Yet she eerily made no cry or moan, the only sound the water as it splashed with the kinetic energy of her convulsions. He rode it out with her, carefully stroking around the hypersensitive area, his breath hot against her ear.

“…fuck…” she breathed, her head pressed against his cheek. She felt sweat break out all over, even while in the water, and her skin felt pimpled. His fingers pulled out of her, causing her to shudder again as he brought his hands up to her shoulders. She knew, even without looking, that shit-eating grin was on his face. Gods, he was proud of himself, and she grudgingly admitted he had every right to be. “Your turn…”

“Oh, no,” he shook his head, but it did him no avail. She turned around, glad to be in the water as she had that deliciously boneless feeling again and the buoyancy helped keep her from collapse. “Tonight is all about you.”

“Fine,” she allowed, “But this is something I’ve wanted to try for a long time. I…” she stopped, a brief flicker of memory making her reconsider. No, this was a world away from any other experience; she was not going to let old phantoms of pain and panic ruin tonight. She gave him a confident look. “Where’s the soap?”

Vorstag made a face, like he was pretending to think carefully before answering. “Somewhere in the tub. Not sure. Lost track of it a while back. Suppose you’ll have to look for it.”

She smiled; she was sure he had read her tells and seen the hesitation, but he wasn’t going to press the issue. Gods, she loved him, loved the way he shored up her weaknesses, the way he allowed her to be strong. She crouched in the water, leaning forwards to kiss him while her hands explored. For the soap. Honest. She just had a little too much trouble finding it.

He shifted a few times, not far, but enough to let her know she had touched something sensitive, something charged with lust and want. She wanted more, her agile fingers taking up the soap and washing him, slowly, beneath the surface. Her fingers playfully tangled for a moment in his curly hair. Then she was sliding up and down the thickened length of his cock, her other hand curling and cupping his balls. His breath quickened against her mouth, mingling with hers, until he had to pull away. “Gods! Gerhild…!”

“So close already?” she asked archly, pulling away only a little. “We should do something about that.”

“What… ah, did you… um, have… in mind…?” He was distracted, watching her as she scooted to the far end of the tub. He felt her hands beneath his buttocks, and a heartbeat later she was lifting, raising him off the bottom of the tub. He quickly realized her intent and threw his other leg over the rim, spreading wide for her, bracing himself with his hands.

He gave a small gasp when he felt the cool air against his wet skin.

He gave a small moan when he felt her warm mouth breathe hot air against the base of his shaft.

“You… you don’t…” He wanted to reassure her, to tell her she didn't have to, they could do something else… but gods, he couldn’t think!

“Shut up.”

Her words were muffled around a mouthful of his throbbing flesh, but he understood and nodded obediently.

Fuck, this wasn't going to take long. Already he could feel it building inside him, the heat concentrating at the base of his torso, right within her mouth. Her lips and tongue continued to stroke, their moisture and heat and tightness so like that other area of hers, so smooth, so soft, so personal. He clenched his teeth, trying to hold it off, not wanting to come so quickly again.

Her hand cupping his ass slipped, a thumb brushing against his hole, pressing against the tight ring of muscle, and he lost the battle. A cry tore out of his chest as his body thrust mindlessly into her mouth. Each subsequent spasm came with its own soft moan, as he digressed from pounding towards twitching. His eyes had closed, lost in that physical sensation of expelling himself outwards, of spreading himself into her, into the woman he loved.

“Dooyooeepay?”

The words were oddly muffled, and he opened his eyes to find his ears in the water, his head floating on the surface. Her face came into view above him, a concerned look creasing her brow. He blinked when she dripped water onto his cheek, and very carefully shifted around until he could sit up. “What did you say?” he asked, looking up at her standing before him.

“Do you feel pain?” she repeated. “It’s just that, when you, ya know, your face… scrunches… like a grimace of pain. I just… I worry that… I mean, I know my thumb slipped, I didn't mean to, and if it made you uncomfortable…”

“No, no, no,” he assured her, smiling reassuringly. He got his legs beneath him and stood up, only so that he wouldn't have to crane his neck to speak with her. “No, there’s no pain. It’s intense, but not painful.” He kissed her cheek. “Besides, you should see the look on your face, when you ‘ya-know’.”

She blushed, making him laugh. He reached over to pluck up a rough towel, and began drying her off.

“What’s next?”

“Hmm,” he pretended to think. “That’s a good question. If I wasn’t so stuffed from supper, I would probably consider a snack right about now. How about a mug of mead?”

He had turned her around, rubbing her back through the towel to both dry and warm her. “Mead? Really? You wanna take a break for a drink?” When she got a good look at his face over her shoulder, she realized she was being teased. “Vorstag!” she laughed, “You… you…”

“Aye,” he acknowledged unrepentantly. He scooped one arm under her legs, sweeping her off her feet, and carried her over to the bed. He dumped her onto the mattress, rolling her out of his arms and hanging onto the towel.

She came to a stop on the far side of the bed, her front downwards, and over her shoulder she watched him hastily dry himself, mostly. The towel was fairly saturated, but he patted it down his long legs, rubbed it over his broad chest, gave it a few quick flicks across his back.

“What are you thinking?”

She came out of her musings to focus on his face. “That you have an incredible body.”

He rolled his eyes as he tossed the towel somewhere behind him. “I knew it. You only want me for my looks.”

“Not just your looks,” she played along, “But your skill in handling your…" her eyes dropped to his cock, "Weapon.”

He clenched his abdominals, making the weapon in question bounce suggestively. “Oh, you like how I spar with you?” He knelt onto the bed, crawling over to her. She made to roll over, but a hand on her shoulder encourage her to lie still.

“Sparring, is that what we’re calling it now?” she asked, keeping her back to him.

“You mentioned weapons,” he kissed the back of her neck. He settled himself over her, rubbing his body along hers, their damp skin catching and dragging and causing friction.

“Aye,” she sighed, “Daggers and sheaths.”

He made some sort of noise into her skin. “My dagger, your sheath,” he agreed. “Though you’re the only person I know who can spar with an empty sheath.”

She felt his hands urge her legs to spread, to allow his legs to settle between, his loins against her ass. “Should I spar with a filled sheath?” she asked without thinking.

Too late she realized what it might mean, as he took her up on it, sliding into her silken depths. “Good idea.”

If she was amazed he was ready again, so quickly again, it was lost under his assault. Still, one final thought managed to push past her lips, “Making up for lost time or something?”

He grunted with a little frustration over her insistence to keep talking, feeling the mood turn a little too serious. “I’ve had to wait for you, let you go, be dead to you, too blind to see you, too selfish to burden you, lost to you, and when we finally found each other, we were still unable to touch. To be together. Aye, I’m trying to make up for all that.”

His rhythm was slow, but his hand snaking around her hip to tease that tiny nub was threatening to take her breath away. “We were both at fault, and there was no fault. There’s nothing to make up for, Vorstag. We have each other. We’ll continue to have each… other… ah…”

“I’m glad you finally admit it.”

“Admit what?” It was hard to hear him over the buzzing in her ears.

“That we belong together.”

She smiled, half of her face pressed into the mattress. "Oh, aye," she agreed. She arched her back, changing the angle slightly, and he sank in further.

Again it seemed to take no time to reach that final tipping point, where she spilled over the edge, spinning over and over into that pleasurable state of non-existence. On one level she was aware of when he followed her, ever her companion, her partner, in all things. Mostly she lay there, panting, enjoying the feel of her body shuddering and trembling around him, and his own convulsive movements in response.

It was hours later, the wicks of the candles burned low, the sheets and blankets messy and rumpled. Gerhild lay on her side with her head pillowed on Vorstag’s arm, his front pressed comfortably into her back. “Vorstag?” It was hard to suppress the smile on her lips.

“…aye?” he sleepily answered, his breath caught up within her mussed hair.

“Will you marry me?”

The sound of his smile was hard to mistake, too. “As soon as we get to Whiterun.”

* * *

There was a small, deserted shack a few miles outside Windhelm. The original owner was lost to anonymity, and subsequent owners left only faint marks of their brief possession. Bloodstains on a table where an elk had been dressed. A broken shaft from a war axe in the corner. One lone shoe tucked way beneath the moldy bedding.

The shack hadn’t been picked by its current owner for any other reason than its seclusion. What he was doing was risky, some would say mad, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He stood looking down at his handiwork and smiled coldly.

The semblance of a body was laid out before him. A skull at the top, freshly scraped clean, its sightless eyes staring at him as he stared at it, with various bones set out to form a torso and limbs. A heart had been placed in the corresponding location—if there was one thing he knew it was anatomy. Flesh, too, had been ripped from a victim and placed to mimic a particular form. For an added touch, the unwilling donor of the items had been a Nord girl with long, blonde hair.

The whole macabre effigy was encircled with candles, which had adversely been the hardest part to scrounge. But he had found them and placed them and lit them.

He knelt beside the 'body,' pulling his cowl off his head to reveal a stump of an ear.  A knife was in his hand, and he rubbed the blade with Nightshade petals. Then the ritual began. Repeatedly, almost dazedly, he stabbed the effigy, dulling the point of the knife on the wooden floor, his whispers loud in the empty cabin.

“Sweet Mother, sweet Mother,

“Send your child unto me,

“For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized

“In blood… and fear…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End of ‘Will of Ebony’
> 
> Whew! I hope you like the finish ;D (aye, I’m a sadistic bitch, I know)
> 
> Gerhild’s and Vorstag’s story will continue in ‘Soul of a Dragon.’ I'll try to get that started on this site either today or tomorrow; I seem to be on a roll :P
> 
> And as ever and always, thank you, all of you, for Subscribing/ Bookmarking/ Commenting/ Kudoing (oops, that's not a word; oh, well, you know what I mean) or just plain reading the stories! I love you all! *gushes uncontrollably, starts bawling*
> 
> Until the next story… *sniffs*
> 
> —Chalybeous


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